


Warm Shadow

by bluetilo



Category: The Walking Dead & Related Fandoms, The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Age Difference, Alternate Universe - No Zombies, Anal Sex, Comeplay, Domestic, Drinking Games, Facials, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Het Sex, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Masturbation, Minor Violence, Nipple Play, Oral Sex, POV Third Person Limited, Rimming, Spit As Lube, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-03 07:46:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 33,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10239359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluetilo/pseuds/bluetilo
Summary: All Rick wanted was some peaceful time alone in the family's cabin in the woods, but after meeting a young man on the road, he starts having second thoughts.





	1. A Lone Figure in the Desert Road

**Author's Note:**

> (Very loosely) Inspired by the movie "Dark Harbor."

The road seems to stretch to the infinity from Rick’s windshield, but his destination isn’t so far away. Only thirty miles separate him from the ferry he wants to take. He checks the speed he’s making on the dashboard and the tiny, blue numbers on his watch’s display; if nothing out of the ordinary comes up, he should make it to the docks with plenty of time to spare before the last ferry leaves. 

It’s strange to be driving alone right now. The last time he was on this road, Lori was sitting by his side, and Carl was in the back seat. They had laughed and shared stories the whole ride; Rick can still remember the sound of Carl’s disgusted _ick_ when they told him about their failed trip to the Grand Canyon when he was still a baby and how much he’d thrown up. It’s been over a year since they last went on vacation together, the car heavy with way more baggage than three people had any right to carry—not that long ago, in the grand scheme of things. But it still was enough time for everything to change. Now, the car is running lighter and quieter as he speeds through Georgia’s roads, but he’s come to notice he doesn’t hate the solitude. As strange as it may feel, after not being alone more than a few minutes a day for the last sixteen years, Rick trusts some time on his own will do him good. 

The weirdest thing about getting shot and being in a coma for a long period is how time simply vanished, two entire months subtracted from him. In his rational mind, Rick knows he was unconscious for every one of those sixty-something days, but knowing that doesn’t change how eerie it all feels. To him, it seems like one day he was arguing with Lori, and the next he was waking up in a hospital gown with needles shoved in his arm. 

He remembers her words clearly, too, like she’s said them just days ago. They had been arguing about anything and everything for a while then, and that morning’s pretext was Rick’s work hours. She talked without looking at him as she made Carl pancakes, but Rick couldn’t stay and listen because he was already running late, which only seemed to make her even more upset. “I wonder if you still care about us at all,” she had said, like it didn’t matter that Carl was only a few feet away, waiting at the table for his breakfast. Rick left for work feeling tired and defeated; during lunch, he had a little heart-to-heart with Shane about it over burgers and fries, just before they got the radio dispatch. And then everything happened too fast—the roadblock, the car crash, the shooting. 

Got shot one day and woke up the next—that’s how it feels. No sign of the two months between one thing and the other. Time might have frozen for Rick, but it sure didn’t for Lori. Before the shooting, they only shared the bed to sleep, and even that seemed to be a dying privilege, given how familiar he was getting with the couch downstairs. But then he got shot, and when he woke up, Lori seemed determined to fix their marriage. As confused as he felt about everything, at the time, giving their family another try sounded like a good idea, but the following weeks only served to prove how naïve they had been. They should have known better, he reckons. How could nearly dying ever save a failed marriage? 

That year-old trip to the cabin in the woods is the last time Rick remembers them being truly happy as a family. There hadn’t been much intimacy between him and Lori, even back then, but he and Carl spent a lot of time together, fishing and watching birds by the river. Lori had seemed content, which is probably why she suggested they spend a while there during Rick’s recovery. The cabin had been closed since they came home, though, so it took them a few days to get it into living conditions. Dale, a friendly old man who ran one of the town’s two stores, helped them with it, taking care of everything that needed to be done without them ever needing to be present. But the time it took to get the lights working again, get rid of the skunks living in the cabin’s foundation, deal with the hornet’s nest on the woodpile, and a dozen other small things, their old life had already seeped into that odd present Rick was having trouble adapting to. 

It started slowly, with terms of endearment too frequent to be entirely natural, like Lori was always trying too hard to make things different. In no time, they were back to pressed tight lips and silent resentment, until it all blew up in their faces just a day before they were supposed to leave for the cabin. He already knew Shane had taken care of his family while he lay on that hospital bed, looking deader with each day, so finding out they were together wasn’t an entirely unexpected development. Rick doesn’t blame them—after two months, they had no reason to believe he would ever wake up again. The only thing he still doesn’t get is Lori’s effort—and to a point, Shane’s—to try and turn back the clock. Maybe it was out of some misguided feeling of guilt. He doesn’t blame them, really doesn’t. He just wishes they had come clean sooner, right after he woke up, so they all could have avoided that new wave of hurt. 

After that last argument with Lori—not their most heated by far, but definitely the most final—he stopped for a moment, weighing his options, trying to come up with a plan. He didn’t want to be one of those husbands who separate from their wives, but never move out—couples who aren’t married, but aren’t divorced either, and just keep living together, instilling poison in each other with every word and everything they do. They both deserve better. Besides, Carl had already gotten used to having Shane as a close presence in his life, and it didn’t seem fair to just cut him off of his kid’s life just like that. He wouldn’t be punishing just Lori or Shane, but Carl too. And to be honest, Rick is too tired to be interested in punishing anyone. 

So that night, after fighting with Lori for the last time, he looked at the suitcase already half-made for their intended season in the cabin, and thought to himself, _why not?_ The cabin was already in decent shape, and Rick could use the quiet before getting back on his feet. As it is, he still got two more months of medical leave ahead of him; even for a desk job, he still needs a lot more physical therapy for his weakened muscles and diminished lung capacity, but it’s nothing he can’t do on his own after having so many sessions at the hospital. Shane and Lori made a feeble attempt to change his mind, but their reluctance didn’t last long. With the news of them being together so fresh, actively clashing with him would take more nerve than either of them had at the moment. Besides, he wouldn’t be on his own, not truly. There were other cabins in a somewhat close range, and the town was only a few minutes away. Dale promised to check in on Rick every now and then as well, so they had nothing to worry about. 

So far, his drive to the ferry was pretty uneventful—the worst thing being no radio signal after he left King County. He’d had time to listen to a melancholic song before losing signal, and now the man’s deep voice is stuck in his head. It’s been over ten minutes since he turned off the radio after catching nothing but static, the sun almost setting in that cloudy late afternoon, but he’s still humming the song’s tune, fingers drumming softly on the steering wheel. 

He’s just mumbled the chorus for the fifth time when a shadow by the side of the road catches his attention. Despite the empty road, he’s just shy of 45, so it’s easy to roll to a stop just a few yards away. He puts the car on neutral and looks back through the rearview mirror, trying to make out what is that dark figure he’s seeing. His first thought is that it’s just roadkill, but the size of it is off. Anyone who hit something that big would probably have gotten in a serious accident, and there are no brake marks on the asphalt. Rick narrows his eyes, curious. It kind of looks… like a person. 

Making up his mind, he parks the sedan and turns off the engine, but leaves the lights on. After another quick glance to the rearview mirror, he gets off the car and walks slowly towards the shadow on the ground. It’s definitely a person, probably someone who needs his help, but he still regrets leaving the Python in the glove box. He doesn’t go back to get it, though, and cautiously approaches the person instead.

It’s a young man fallen on his side; his slightly swollen lip and puffy eye tell Rick this was probably the result of a violent altercation. At first, Rick worries he might be dead, and has already pulled his cellphone out to call 911, but then he hears the man groaning and stirring on the ground. He thrusts the phone back in his pocket and crouches next to the stranger, helping him sit up.

The man blinks a pair of light blue eyes several times, frowning, before he looks at Rick and around himself.

“Do you know where you are?” Rick asks.

The man’s Adam’s apple rises and falls once before he replies. “Yeah. Sort of.”

“How old are you?” Rick says. It’s more than curiosity that makes him ask. Confusion or memory loss could indicate brain damage. He leans in, trying to check the young man’s pupils—no sign of dilatation—and the stranger flinches. Instinct has Rick reaching for his belt, but there’s no flashlight there that he can use to check the man’s reflexes.

“I’m not asking ‘cause I wanna get to know you better. I need to make sure you’re all right. C’mon, answer me. How old are you? What’s your name?” he says as clearly as he can, knelt next to the man, asphalt biting through his jeans.

“Name’s Daryl. I’m twenty-three,” he says, patting the ground around himself until his fingers close around the handle of a worn backpack.

“Daryl, can you tell me what happened?” Rick should probably drive him to the nearest station; he’ll probably lose the last ferry, but it’s okay. There’s another one in the morning.

Daryl ignores his question for a moment, fumbling through his backpack, checking its contents.

“Some assholes took my bike,” he says like it’s nothing and tries to stand up.

Rick touches his elbow to give him some support, but the young man flinches again and Rick pulls his hand back.

“Careful. You might have a concussion. We need to get you to a station, so you can give your statement. But first I gotta take you to the hospital, get your head checked.”

Daryl looks at him, brow furrowed with mistrust. “You a cop or somethin’?”

By the tone of the question, Rick can already tell cops aren’t Daryl’s favorite people.

“Or something,” he says, hoping it doesn’t scare him off completely. Rick is a cop, but he’s on leave for the next few months, so it isn’t the same, is it?

Daryl snorts, getting his backpack on his shoulders. “Just my luck,” he grunts as if to himself. “Not goin’ to no station. ‘Sides, the bike wasn’t mine, anyway.”

Rick gives the man a once-over. If he was lying on his back on the side of the road, there’s a good chance he got a heavy blow to the head, and even if he is on his feet and talking, there’s no way to know if he’s actually okay just from looking at him.

But Daryl sees him staring, and doesn’t seem to like what he reads into it. “I didn’t steal nothing. ‘Twas my brother’s. He owed lots o’ people. ‘Bout time someone showed up to collect.”

He starts to walk away, backpack on his shoulders, slow steps down the road in the same direction Rick was driving. He seems perfectly in his element, worn-out jeans hanging low from his hips, a red bandana swinging from his back pocket, the wings on his leather vest peeking behind the backpack, his gait betraying no immediate worries. Still, seeing Daryl like that—a lone figure in the desert road—fills Rick with apprehension.

“You still need to go to the hospital,” he yells after the man. “You could be bleeding into your brain,” he adds, even if it’s a little far-fetched. Daryl shows no symptoms like disorientation and nausea, and his balance looks good.

“My skull’s pretty thick. Got beaten up worse ‘fore,” Daryl says without looking back, untroubled like previous head injuries weren’t reason for even more concern. “‘Sides, got no insurance.”

“It’s thirty miles with nothing but empty road out there,” Rick tries for the last time. “You sure you wanna walk all that? At least lemme give you a ride.”

That seems to get Daryl’s attention; he turns around and stares at Rick, evaluating him. The way he stands on his side, like he’s trying to make himself a smaller target, eyes permanently suspicious, it seems like the refusal is on the tip of his tongue, as absurd as that would be given current circumstances.

But then Daryl seems to think it over and says, “Lead the way,” cocking his head to Rick’s car, parked a few yards down the road.

They make their way to the car in silence. Rick unlocks the doors with the alarm and takes the driver’s seat. Next to him, Daryl slides to the passenger’s side, feeling blindly under the cushion for the lever and pushes the seat backwards, giving his legs more space to stretch, moving around Rick’s decade-old sedan like it’s his. Rick watches him a second more before turning his face to the road and starting the engine.

They drive in silence for a few minutes. Rick tries to think of any subject they can talk about, but nothing rolls off his tongue—which makes no sense. Being complete strangers as they are, anything they say about themselves is a potential subject, but the young man’s demeanor doesn’t exactly encourage Rick to strike a conversation, as much as he wants to.

Daryl starts rummaging through his backpack until he pulls a pack of Marlboros and a lighter. Rick is pretty sure filling your body with nicotine isn’t part of the first aid guidelines after you take a beating, but he knows better than saying something about it. Instead, he rolls down Daryl’s window some, using the button on his left side. The man nods in thanks, taking a long drag from his cigarette and flicking the ashes out the window.

“So, Officer Friendly,” he says and takes a pause. The moniker sounds foreign in his tongue, like it’s a word he borrowed from someone and doesn’t know exactly what to do with it yet. “Where you headed?”

Rick glances at the man smoking a cigarette next to him, unfazed like he hasn’t just lost his means of transportation, taken a beating and been left for dead by the side of the road, only to be rescued by a cop—which, in Daryl’s world, seems to be a bad thing. It’s such a dumb idea giving personal information to a stranger, especially a stranger he’s met under such circumstances; still, Rick hears himself saying, “I’m taking the ferry across the river. Gonna spend a month or so in the family’s cabin, on the outskirts of the woods.”

“Didn’t know cops got such long vacations,” Daryl says between puffs of smoke.

“I’m on medical leave. Got shot in the line of duty,” he says, then adds when he sees Daryl scanning his body, “Right here.” He touches the place where a raised scar hides under his shirt.

He waits to hear some comment on that, but Daryl says nothing, taking a final drag from his cigarette instead. He then puts out the cinder on the tip of his fingers, like someone would do to a candle, without as much as a hiss at the burn, before tossing the cigarette butt out of the window. Rick sees all that, but keeps to himself.

They drive a couple miles more before Rick says, “What about your brother? What’s he gonna say when he finds out some guys took his bike?”

He expects Daryl to dodge his question, but the answer comes at once.

“He’d have to show up first.”

Rick looks briefly at Daryl, raising his eyebrows to tell him he’s listening.

“Haven’t seen his ugly ass in over a year. Got the hell outta Dodge once he realized he’d never be able to pay all the dealers he owed in Georgia,” he says with a sharp look at Rick.

Rick can see a challenge in that confession, speaking so plainly of illegal activities to someone who has already admitted to being a man of the law. Rick keeps his eyes on the road, but from his peripheral vision, he knows Daryl has lifted an eyebrow to him.

“Do you miss him?”

The question clearly comes as a shock, probably so different from whatever it was that Daryl was expecting. He lowers his head for a moment, seeming to consider the question for the first time.

“Sometimes,” he says, and doesn’t offer another word on the matter.

Rick doesn’t push it either.

For a moment, it seems like that is going to be all the conversation they’ll have, and the two of them do a few more miles in silence. The sky darkens even further, both the waning moon and the clouds making for an especially shadowy night. Daryl lights another cigarette and smokes all of it before he speaks again.

“And what does the ol’ lady says ‘bout you spending all that time away from home?” Daryl says, resuming the conversation as if they’d never stopped talking.

Rick shrugged, but the fingers on his left hand absently touch the ring that isn’t there anymore. “I reckon she stopped thinking about it sometime in the two months I spent in a coma, probably around the time she started screwing my best friend.”

Saying it like that is unfair to Lori, but he’s unable to resist the temptation to challenge Daryl too. Alone in that car, having just met, they could’ve played pretend that their lives were just swell, made small talk about the weather, about nothing at all, but Daryl had chosen to be brutally honest and Rick doesn’t want to be anything less.

“Shit, man,” Daryl says, and something in his voice sounds a little less defensive, and Rick counts that a win.

“It’s all right. I didn’t care as much as I’d expect to. We weren’t good for each other before I got in a coma either. At least my son likes the guy.” It’s true. As much as there’s a part of him that resents them both and feels cut off from his own family, mostly he saw it coming long before getting shot. Not that it would be like it was, with his best friend and all, but he knew he and Lori wouldn’t last long. Hoped they wouldn’t last long, sometimes, too. And if Carl is going to have a stepfather, there are worse choices than Shane Walsh.

“I’m Rick, by the way,” Rick says, when he realizes he hadn’t introduced himself to the man currently in his car. “Rick Grimes.”

He waits for Daryl to say his last name, but the man gives him nothing. In fact, Daryl is silent for so long, his face resting on his right shoulder, that Rick is afraid he’s fallen asleep, which Rick isn’t sure he should be doing so shortly after taking a blow to the head. He’s debating whether or not to shake him awake when the young man’s voice cuts through the silence.

“Thank you. For helping me out back there.” Daryl is now facing him, his steel blue eyes shining like stars in the dark.

Rick wants to say something, but doesn’t know what. He gives a short nod, feeling his mouth dry like he hasn’t had a drop of water in a day, and gets his eyes back on the road.

* * *

When they reach their destination, Rick parks the car next to the dock the ferry is moored alongside. It’s the end of the line for both of them—Rick will cross the river and Daryl will be off to… wherever drifters go. Rick knows him for less than two hours, but he feels a wistful pang in his chest when they get out of the car and stand in the empty parking lot.

Daryl walks around the sedan and leans against the hood, lighting another cigarette and inhaling it lazily. Rick locks the car and stands in front of him, staring.

“I guess this is good-bye then,” Rick says foolishly. For the last five minutes, his brain was going back and forth around the words, _The ferry doesn’t leave for some time yet. Why don’t we go grab a bite?_

“Yeah, suppose it is,” Daryl says, looking at Rick behind a curtain of dark, straight hair.

Rick considers offering him money, but he doesn’t have much in his wallet, and Daryl looks the type who would take offense, even if he also looks like he doesn’t have two dimes to rub together.

Daryl straightens up and kicks the toes of his boots on the asphalt, getting ready to leave. “Nice meeting you, Rick Grimes. See ya.” He turns around and starts walking, slowly putting distance between them.

“See you, Daryl,” Rick says after him.

Daryl lifts one of his hands above his head. Rick wishes he’d take one last look behind, but Daryl never does.

* * *

The ferry leaves right on schedule, fifty-eight minutes after Rick arrived at the docks. He eats a sandwich in a nearby diner while he waits, trying not to think of how wrong it feels to be eating it alone, but he can’t help wondering what they’d be talking about if Daryl was here, what he would choose to eat, if he’d take a soda, tea or nothing.

When the ferry weighs anchor and sails away, Rick is flashed with memories of Carl, Lori and him standing against the railing on the passenger’s area, the wind blowing on their hairs, the sun shining bright above them, and Carl pointing excitedly at the different flocks of birds he saw. This time, Rick is alone and stays in the vehicle, his seat reclined, lost in thought. A strong smell of tobacco lingers inside the car; Rick is probably going to have to get it professionally cleaned eventually, but for now, his nostrils flare and he inhales deeply. If he closes his eyes and concentrates, he can almost believe Daryl is still sitting next to him, puffing out columns of smoke on the passenger seat.

On the other side of the river, his car is one of the first to leave the ferry. His first stop is at Dale’s store. The old man has already closed shop for the day, but he knows Rick is coming, and it only takes a quick ring to the doorbell to get him on the doorstep, greeting Rick with a smile and a warm pat on the back. He hands over the cabin’s keys—they had sent it to him so he could take care of the repairs—as well as a few crates of produce bearing the stamp of the Greene’s farms. Rick has brought a decent amount of groceries and supplies in the trunk of his car, but he’s glad to have fresh vegetables and eggs as well.

He gets to the cabin shortly after, and as soon as he opens the front door, he knows he’s made the right call coming here. The smell of cleanness mixed with wood and nature invades his nostrils, instead of the stale air you would expect from a house that has been closed for over a year, and he thanks Dale once again in silence. The cabin is small, but it looks cozy tonight, instead of cramped. He places the Python on the counter separating the kitchen from the living room and takes a few minutes unloading the groceries, and organizing what goes in the cupboards and what needs to be refrigerated. He drags his suitcase to the bedroom, but decides to take a bath before putting all his clothes in the wardrobe. He isn’t sweaty, but he doesn’t feel clean either, and soaking in hot water always makes him feel better in the end, so he takes a towel and a soap from his suitcase and heads to the bathroom.

He leaves the tub once the water starts feeling unpleasantly lukewarm, and stops in front of the mirror to look at himself, wiping the droplets of steam that had condensed on the cold surface. Back at the hospital, they gave him weekly shaves, but he’s always been a hairy man—at least where his face is concerned—and he woke up from the coma with a short, salt-n-pepper stubble covering half his face. As a cop, Rick had always kept himself clean shaven, but now that he’s on leave, his face hasn’t seen a razorblade ever since he woke up. The relatively thick beard makes him look older than thirty-seven, but Rick kind of likes that. Lately, he often feels a lot older than his age, so maybe it’s only fitting that his face matches his mindset.

The summer is nearly over and the cool winds of fall are blowing closer every day, but the temperature is pleasant enough that Rick doesn’t get dressed immediately after getting out of bath. Instead, he wraps a towel around his hips and enjoys the goosebumps that spread all over his skin as the water on his body starts drying naturally while he busies himself with unpacking his suitcase.

He immediately regrets his decision when he hears the noise of something moving outside. It can be just an animal that wandered too close to the cabin, but it can be a person, too—and people with good intentions don’t sneak around, they knock on the door. Be it animal or perp, defending himself half-naked is a bad idea, he muses as he makes his way to the kitchen, grabbing the Python he had left on the counter.

He hears the noise again, louder this time, and there is no room for doubt: someone is on his back porch. The town isn’t famous for its crime rates, at least not as much as other nearby towns where meth is a serious problem, but Rick is still on alert as he walks to the cabin’s back door, past the kitchen and the small laundry area.

Stepping with his heels and toes, trying to be as silent as possible, Rick pulls opens the door and then pushes the screen with one hand, holding it so it won’t slam, the Python in a firm grip in his other hand. He takes a few steps outside, and sees the trespasser in the dark, lurking by the woodpile.

“Freeze,” he yells in his best crime show voice, raising his gun, but he might’ve as well said _Run!,_ because the man dashes as soon as the words is out of his mouth.

Rick is having a fraction of a second long inner debate on whether or not he should give chase—and how is he going to chase anyone through the woods barefoot and in a towel?—when two things happen at once: the sliver of moon in the sky shines enough light that Rick can see the tips of two dirty wings on the man’s vest, peeking behind his backpack, and the man trips on something—a rock, the root of a tree, mud from the soft rain that had fallen that morning, who knows—and falls noisily on the ground, halting his fall with his open palms.

Rick hurries next to him, towel swinging wildly and threatening to fall around his hips, toes digging into cold mud. It’s him, Rick knows it’s him, but his stomach still simmers with anticipation when the young man turns around and stares at him in the dark.

“You gonna pull the trigger or what?” Daryl says, eyes shining with defiance.


	2. Twenty-five Beams

“Daryl?” Rick asks, frowning, as he lowers his weapon. He’s already trying to put it back in the holster when he remembers he’s not even wearing pants, and drops his hand mid-movement. “What—I could’ve shot you.” 

He offers Daryl his free hand to help him get up, and Rick’s palm gets slightly smeared with blood where the other man touches it. Daryl is already pulling his hand back, but Rick holds his wrist as softly as he can, turning his palm up—the skin there is a little scraped off from breaking his fall, mostly on the heel and right under his fingers. 

“But you didn’t,” Daryl says, tilting his head down a little as he pulls his hand back. 

His palms aren’t the only thing in bad shape; he looks a lot worse for wear than when Rick first met him. His clothes are damp and look stiff, like they were soaking wet a while ago but already started to dry on his body. There is so much mud caked on his boots and the hem of his jeans, Rick wouldn’t be surprised to hear he had crossed a mile long bog on the way here. Rick knows he should be on red alert having this man he met under such strange circumstances show up at his doorstep—it sounds too much like the beginnings of a murder report—but something in his stomach hasn’t stopped fluttering since he noticed the trespasser was Daryl, and it isn’t fight or flight instinct. 

“Come inside. You need to clean those wounds.” 

They rub their feet on the doormat, but they track mud inside the house just the same. Rick guides Daryl to the kitchen and has him sitting on one of the tall stools next to the counter. Now that the adrenaline of catching the mysterious intruder is over, Rick feels Daryl’s eyes following him everywhere and can’t ignore the fact he’s wearing nothing but a towel anymore. If his graying bodily hair wasn’t enough to make him self-conscious, his slim frame certainly would. Rick has always been on the skinny side, but up until getting shot, he’d managed to put in enough work to make himself look wiry instead of underfed. After two months of lying on a hospital bed and getting fed through a nasogastric tube, though, his ribs and hipbones cut far too sharply through his skin—skin that is now marred by scar tissue.

“You, uh… stay here while I get the first aid kit,” he says, and heads to the bathroom, Python still in hand.

He catches a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror just as he’s bending down to get the kit from the cabinet under the sink, and the face he sees is a little jarring in its contrast—the beard makes him look older, but the blush currently spreading on his cheeks is incredibly boyish. Looking down, his muddy feet add to the contradiction—they’re bony and his toes are a little crooked, but the dirt reminds him of Carl coming back inside after playing barefoot all afternoon in the backyard. He places both the gun and the kit on the small sink counter, and steps briefly into the tub, washing the mud away from his feet as fast as he can. Then he goes to his bedroom, gets dressed in a white T-shirt and dark gray sweatpants, and carefully puts the gun inside the nightstand’s drawer.

When he finally returns to the kitchen, Daryl is right where he left him, casually examining his palms, poking at where the abrasions are deeper. In silence, Rick lays the small box open on the counter next to Daryl, taking a bottle of antiseptic and a package of sterile gauze. When he extends his own hand, Daryl glances at Rick’s palm, as if he doesn’t understand what is being asked of him. But he eventually offers his hands, lowering his head and looking up at Rick through his lashes. Rick leans into him, dabbing the wet gauze gently on the wounds. He expects Daryl to wince at the antiseptic’s sting, but there’s no reaction, so he continues to carefully clean the scraped area.

Daryl has beautiful hands, he supposes, as much as a man’s hands can be beautiful. His fingers are long and thick; his nails are in need of a trimming, dirt gathering underneath, but Rick doesn’t mind much—Daryl’s hands look strong and capable of anything.

The spot on his fingertips where Daryl put out the cigarette earlier is bright pink, but is already starting to form a scab; the back of that hand is littered with tiny circular scars that tell him it wasn’t the first time Daryl did that. Rick looks at them and wonders several things that aren’t his place to know—why he does that, how long he’s been doing it, why on that hand and not the other or somewhere else on his body where people can't see. Rick then notices two minuscule drawings on Daryl’s skin: a heart on the inside of his wrist, and a star on the back of his hand, between the thumb and the forefinger. The lines are too shaky to have been professionally made. Rick wants to know what’s the story behind them, if Daryl likes the tattoos or wishes he had never made them in the first place. But since drilling him with such personal questions is probably a bad idea, all Rick allows himself is to softly brush his thumb over both marks, noticing how different the skin feels there. 

“Wasn’t following you,” Daryl says. “I just…” He stops talking and is quiet for a while. In anyone else, that convenient silence would sound like the time someone takes to better phrase a lie, but not Daryl. He uses honesty like a weapon. 

“I got lost in these woods once, when I was ten. A little more to the west, but the same woods,” he resumes at last. “Tonight, I was lookin’ for a place to settle. Thought I could shut my eyes for a minute in the ferry-boat, but I guess I dozed off. Next thing I know, she’s moving. When we landed, I roamed around town for a while till I remembered the forest.” 

Rick finishes cleaning one of Daryl’s hands and moves to the other. 

“Knew ‘bout these little cabins, figured it was as good a place as any to crash. Didn’t see no harm in squatting in an empty house, maybe hunt something for breakfast in the morning.” He shrugs. “Didn’t know anyone was home till you went all cop on my ass.” 

Rick finishes cleaning Daryl’s other hand, but doesn’t let it go, holding it between his palms as he tries to make sense of why this man has just so plainly admitted his intention of breaking and entering. Can he tell, just from looking, that Rick will do him no harm? The same way Rick himself was fine with picking him up on the road, and felt at ease enough to talk about Lori cheating on him, about getting shot, and where he was headed? It’s irrational, but why does it seem like they can just… trust each other? 

“What about your clothes?” he asks at last, succumbing to curiosity. 

Daryl lifts one eyebrow and glances down at his own body, seeming to notice for the first time the awful state of his clothes. “Was tryin’ to sneak out the ferry, so they wouldn’t make me pay for the ticket, but I fell in the water. Was thinkin’ of lighting a fire to get ‘em dry. ‘S why I chose your cabin. Yours has a lot of firewood in the back.” 

Rick winces. A dive into the river must have left him cold to the bones. Then he notices he’s been holding Daryl’s hand for all that time and drops it all of a sudden, like he’s just burned himself. Only after letting go, he realizes Daryl hadn’t pulled his hand back all that time either. 

“You can take a bath here, if you want to. There’s still plenty of hot water. And I can put your clothes in the washing machine.” 

“That’d be good,” Daryl says, with a nod. 

“Let me get you a towel,” Rick says and heads to his bedroom, taking a clean towel from the wardrobe. 

He goes back to the part of the cabin that doubles as kitchen and living room, and hands the towel to Daryl. “The bathroom is right there. When you can, give me your clothes so I can put ‘em in the machine.” 

Daryl nods and takes the moist backpack off the floor, heading towards the bathroom, towel in hand. 

The bathroom's door closes with a click.

That day is so different from anything that has ever happened in his life—it's like he's reading an outlandish work of fiction where he's the main character. Rick suddenly needs something to do with his hands; figuring Daryl must be hungry, he spends the next minutes busy making a sandwich. He’s just closed the bread on top of a combination of fried eggs, tomato, pickles, lettuce, and mustard, when the bathroom door opens a sliver and a hand sneaks out, placing a pile of dirty clothes and a pair of muddy boots outside. The door closes and a the faint noise of water filling the tub resounds through the cabin a few seconds later. 

Rick leaves the dish with the sandwich on top of the counter to fetch the pile of dirty clothes and the boots. The laundry area is pretty small and doesn’t have much in terms of appliances. He opens and closes the cupboards, trying to remember what is where. Thankfully, there are still a couple boxes of soap and fabric softener left. Daryl must have given him everything there was in his backpack, judging by how many clothes there are, and Rick inspects each item as he tosses them into the machine. 

A black shirt with two buttons missing. A faded plaid one with cut-off sleeves. Two T-shirts, one dark green and one blue, also with cut-off sleeves. Rick smiles, sensing a pattern. A single pair of dark blue jeans, worn thin in several places, tearing on the knees—genuine tears, not the fashionable kind you get in brand new pants. Two pairs of socks, and gray briefs. The leather vest is dirty, same as everything else, but Rick doesn’t put it in the machine; he’s pretty sure you’re not supposed to wash leather, but then again, you’re probably not supposed to take a swim with it either. For now, he sets it aside along with the boots. 

He stares at the buttons on the washing machine, trying to figure out how to make it work. It’s an old thing, completely different from the model he’s got at home, and it takes him a while to remember which direction and how far he must turn each dial to get the setting he wants. It’s a small victory when water finally starts pouring in the machine’s cylinder. He then turns his attention to the vest again, deciding to wipe it clean with a moist cloth as best as he can. A generation or two ago, the wings on the back might have been white, but it's hard to tell with how grimy they look today. After dealing with the vest, he moves on to the boots, and by the time he’s done, they’re not clean by any means, but they’ll be good enough to wear once they’re dry. In one of the laundry room's cabinets, he finds a soft red blanket that smells mostly clean and takes it with him, planning on setting up the couch in the living room. Come to think of it, Daryl is going to need to borrow something from Rick if all of his clothes are currently being washed. 

Back in the kitchen, he sees the bathroom door is open, so Daryl must have finished his bath. The sandwich is half-eaten on top of the counter. Everything is silent, and for a moment, Rick worries Daryl might have left, but the man’s got nothing to wear, and one of them taking a stroll outdoors in a towel is enough for the night. Taking a few steps past the counter, he sees Daryl collapsed on the big gray couch, just in his underwear. 

The young man’s eyes are closed and the swelling on the left one has gone down a bit. A few strands of recently washed hair fall on his forehead, and his naked chest is rising and falling softly with each breath. He probably dozed off waiting for Rick. It must've made for a busy night getting robbed, taking a beating, getting a ride with a stranger, taking an unplanned dive at the docks, hiking all the way to the cabin, screwing up a B&E and tripping on his feet on top of it. If it were Rick, he’d probably be tired too. 

Daryl is lying on his side, one arm curled under his head; his expression is unguarded, peaceful, and Rick knows he’s seeing something rare. His eyes travel farther down Daryl’s body. The hairless chest makes him look even younger than twenty-three, and now that Rick is paying attention, he notices how hard his nipples are, cold raising tiny goose bumps around the dark pink circles. From where he stands, he can see the lines of another tattoo gracing Daryl’s arm folded under his head—some kind of demon, maybe? Rick hugs the blanket closer, remembering how the tattooed skin of Daryl’s hand and wrist felt on his fingertips.

Daryl’s skin isn’t so smooth below the navel, though, a sparse trail of light brown hair leading into his underwear—white briefs almost see-through with dampness. As if orchestrated, Rick has just leaned in to cover him with the blanket when Daryl stirs in his sleep, lying on his back. Rick’s breathing gets stuck in his throat for a moment when he sees Daryl’s dick perfectly outlined against the fabric, his underwear leaving little to the imagination. Two things immediately stand out: Daryl is uncut and he’s half-hard now. Rick knows he should go, but he’s frozen to the spot, his fists closed tight on the blanket.

Daryl stirs in his sleep again and Rick’s daze is replaced by fear of getting caught. He lays the blanket on Daryl as softly as he can, taking care not to touch any of the skin on display.

He goes back to his bedroom, shutting the door behind him. He takes a few deep breaths, not knowing what to do with himself, feeling a little stupid in his confusion. There is not the vaguest trace of sleepiness in him—on the contrary, his mind feels feverish—but he decides to go to bed anyway. As soon as his head hits the pillow, however, the only thing he sees is the man currently sleeping on his couch. It's probably worry over Daryl's well-being that makes Rick constantly think of him, though it's a mystery why good-natured concern would make Rick's mind keep coming back to the serene expression, the goose bumps on Daryl's body, the hardened nipples, or the cock starting to make a tent in his frayed underwear.

Even if it isn’t, it has to be just worry—it’s the only acceptable explanation right now. There is no room in his life for any other reason. Not when he’s still in recovery, so shortly after waking up from a coma. Not when he’s separated for all of two days, when he’s still legally married. Not when he should be in this fucking cabin busy with respiratory PT, instead of pining over some kid who’s barely old enough to drink sleeping half-naked on his couch.

It’s dark in the bedroom, but Rick forgot to turn off the lights in the living room and some of its brightness shines through the gap between the door and the floor. His eyes have gotten used to the dimness enough that he can see fairly well, and he stares at the ceiling with determination. When he was a boy and his parents sent him to bed early, he used to count the little glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling until he fell asleep, and that is a habit he still keeps. Granted, he stopped having phosphorescent drawings above his bed over two decades ago, but concentrating on anything dull usually does the trick. Right after getting into the academy, he tried to remember all the license plates of the patrol cars in the precinct, but that got easy after a few days. Nowadays, sometimes he tries to remember all the arrests he made in a particular year, and sometimes it's silly things, like coming up with fruits starting with each letter of the alphabet. Tonight, he stares at the ceiling and starts counting all the wooden beams he sees up there. 

Intrusive thoughts keep ruining his diligent count, and he reaches twenty-two beams with some trouble. 

When Rick was sixteen he formed a garage band that consisted of him, Shane, and a girl from his English class, Andrea. They called themselves “The Walking Dead,” and used to perform dressed up like zombies. Eventually, Andrea broke up with Shane and quit the band, and Rick’s mom got tired of all the noise and confiscated his drum set, but for the two months the band lasted, Rick had gotten into his head he’d tattoo his band’s name in big styled letters on his back. In hindsight, Rick is glad to have chickened out the moment he sat on the chair at the seedy tattoo parlor. Was Daryl’s first tattoo also a teenage whim? How old is the oldest of his tattoos? And the most recent? How many more tattoos would Rick find if he mapped Daryl’s skin? 

Rick stares at the ceiling with twice as much determination. Twenty-two beams on the ceiling. 

Before he started dating Lori in his senior year, he’d met this guy from the wrestling team, Norman, Rick remembers, his hand mindlessly stroking his own stomach from over his T-shirt. Norman had great arms like Daryl has, and Rick used to spend hours watching the team practice, hiding under the bleachers, paying attention to the way Norman moved and listening to how he grunted with exertion. Sometimes, in the cafeteria during lunch, at the parking lot after class, or even just walking past each other in the hallways, their eyes would lock briefly and Rick thought he could see something there. But then he met Lori, and it didn’t feel right to keep staring at Norman when he was dating someone else. Maybe, if he had done something other than looking—with Norman, or any of the men that made him turn his head back to get a second look—then maybe, he wouldn’t be so hot and bothered over the man crashing on his couch. 

Twenty-three beams on the ceiling. 

But Daryl isn’t just some guy, is he? No, he’s something else. Rick doesn’t think he’s ever seen a face so striking. Daryl is handsome in an unpresuming way, like he’s got no idea he’s so good-looking. Rick moves his hand lower; his T-shirt ruffled up a bit, and he touches the patch of skin on his lower belly between the hem and the waistband of his sweatpants. 

Twenty-four beams on the ceiling. 

Rick might be having trouble sleeping, but Daryl definitely went out like a light. He looked so relaxed as he slept. Was he having interesting dreams or was his hard-on just one of the dozen erections men have on a regular night of sleep? If he was indeed dreaming about something, did it involve beautiful women and wet pussies, or hard cocks like Rick’s is?

But even if Daryl does like men, it doesn’t mean he's into Rick.

Twenty-five fucking beams on the ceiling. 

Being almost fifteen years older than him, Rick knows it’s unlikely Daryl sees him as anything more than some guy he’s crashing with, but that doesn’t mean he can’t objectively appreciate Daryl’s beauty, right? It’s a normal response to those piercing eyes and the sexy birthmark above the lip. Has anyone ever kissed that mole? 

Twenty—how many is it again? Twenty-five beams on the ceiling. 

Kissing is good, one of Rick’s favorite things. Actually, he’s always loved all sexual things involving mouth, both giving and receiving. Lori had never been a fan of giving blowjobs and Rick never insisted; as much as he likes getting blown, the whole thing loses its appeal when the other person isn’t into it. At first, he put an effort in going down on her every time they had sex, and he could tell she liked it, but she always got so embarrassed it ended up being awkward for both of them. 

Twenty-four beams on the ceiling. 

Does Daryl like getting head? Probably. Rick’s never met a man who didn’t. He doesn’t have much experience with blowjobs, but just the feeling of being inside a warm mouth is more than enough to get him going. Honestly, with that face and that mouth, there is no way Daryl’s blowjobs are anything but amazing, if he’s even into that—it’s Daryl, it doesn’t take much more than that for a blowjob to be perfect. And if Daryl isn’t up to having another man’s dick in his mouth, Rick would be more than willing to get on his knees himself and work on that delicious cock until Daryl came undone in his mouth. Maybe he should offer. Daryl might say yes even if he isn’t into Rick, because a blowjob is a blowjob, right?

Twenty-five beams on the ceiling. Twenty—

Rick lets out an exasperated sigh, and sticks his hand into his sweatpants, moaning in a throaty voice when his palm touches his skin. Sometime in the last few minutes, he got rock-hard, and when he strokes himself, his own flesh pulsates against his palm. Yeah, he’d get on his knees to suck on Daryl’s cock. He’s never done anything like it, but whenever he watches guys blowing other guys online, picturing himself giving head always gets him off harder than the other way around—he supposes it has something to do with the psychological pleasure of turning someone into a whimpering mess, begging to come, just because his touch feels so good.

And then there is taste—not only he’d get to see Daryl hard and leaking, hear his breathing change, but he’d be able to taste his pleasure, too. Rick pushes his pants lower, exposing himself in the darkness, and squeezes himself from root to tip, milking precome on his fingertips and shoving them into his waiting mouth. He tastes himself almost every time he jerks off, and he can never get enough of the salty tang on his tongue. He hasn’t tried his own come, not yet, but one day he will.

Would Daryl taste anything like him? If he pushed precome slick fingers into Daryl’s mouth, would he crave the flavor like Rick does? The hand on his cock keeps working fast, and it’s hard to focus on a single thought. Right now, all he knows is that he wants Daryl and their mouths on each other somehow; sometimes his mind paints pictures of Daryl on his knees for him, and sometimes he sees himself sucking Daryl, the other man’s cock so deep down his throat every time he gasps for air, all he gets is Daryl’s scent. In real life, Rick probably wouldn’t be able to get half of it inside his mouth without gagging, but in his mind, he’s free to imagine himself deepthroating Daryl within an inch of his life. Rick plays with thoughts of fucking Daryl’s mouth while he gets choked by a massive erection sliding down his throat, even if he knows that would never work in real life; he was never good at multitasking, and having that beautiful man’s mouth on him would be a lot more than he can take.

“Daryl—” he sobs in the darkened room, only then noticing how much he’s been moaning, as his orgasm draws on. Rick comes on his hand, but in his thoughts, he’s spilling into Daryl’s mouth and on it, across his nose, his cheekbones, his chin. 

Exhausted, Rick opens his eyes and looks at the ceiling above him. 

Twenty-five beams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaah, I wanna hug all of you!  
> You guys spoil me rotten. Thank you so much for all the kudos, the comments, and the subscriptions. I hoped you liked this chapter too. Let me know if you did. And if you didn't, let me know as well, so I can take your criticism in consideration. :)


	3. His Daryl Puzzle

The following morning, Rick oversleeps. He’s been oversleeping ever since waking up from the coma; his nights have become shorter as he retires to bed earlier, too, as if his body isn’t used to staying alert for as many hours as it did before the shooting. To say that Rick is oversleeping is a just a figure of speech, though. Being on a medical leave, he’s got no specific schedule to be late for, no early shift at the station, no worries about showing up in time for dinner. Physical therapy is Rick’s only daily obligation, but as long as he gets it done, it doesn’t matter when. 

In the few weeks he stayed home after leaving the hospital, it was pretty clear that Lori didn’t know what to do with him there the entire day. He tried to do everything he could for her and Carl, did his best to share responsibilities with the house’s upkeep, but it was as if his very presence was uncomfortable, something that shouldn’t be there, something that disturbed the natural order of things. Her annoyance was quiet but plain, and Rick noticed it in every forced smile she gave him after a moment of silence—the perfect picture of a wife trying hard not to be rude to her poor, sick husband. 

One of the benefits he’d seen in the cabin’s solitude was escaping the feeling he was a spare part no one knew what to do with. 

When he leaves his bedroom at 9:30 AM, though, barefoot and wearing the same clothes he fell asleep in, it’s like he slept through the alarm clock and missed the beginning of the day. The couch is empty but obviously slept in, the blanket he placed on Daryl last night crumpled on top of the cushions. One of the cupboards in the kitchen is open, and a large knife and a plate are on top of the counter, looking like they were just used. Near the sink, Rick sees a large fish in a roasting pan, its flank cut in several thin slices, covered by a red sauce thick with spices and vegetables. Rick doesn’t know where the fish has come from, but the tomatoes, green pepper, and whatnot are probably Greene’s produce he got from Dale yesterday. It’s raw, but it already smells mouthwatering, and Rick inhales the scent. 

He makes his way to the back door, past the laundry room, and sees Daryl standing outside, leaning against the woodpile, a mug in his hand smelling strongly of coffee, and a cigarette hanging from his lips. 

“Morning,” Rick greets him. 

A thick column of smoke escapes Daryl’s parted lips and is immediately absorbed by his nostrils, only to leave his lips again in a dispersed cloud. 

“Hey yourself,” he greets back. “Came out her to smoke ‘cause I didn’t know if you’d mind the smell inside the house.” 

Rick remembers taking deep breaths inside the car, chasing Daryl’s vanishing scent, wishing he could hold on to it a moment longer. “I don’t mind the smell,” he says. 

Daryl flicks ashes on the wooden floor, wrinkling his nose at the cigarette between his fingers. “Damn Lucky Strikes. Lost my Marlboros to the river last night ‘n that shop in town only had these weak ass things.”

“You went to Dale’s store?” 

“Nah, was some place with a pretentious ass name, The Governor’s, or some shit.” 

Rick immediately knows which place he means. There are only two shops in town, and Philip Blake owns the biggest one. Blake is no governor, was never even a small town mayor, but he runs a successful store that supplies more than half of what is consumed in a twenty mile radius, and that matters to most folks. Blake has never done anything against him, so Rick feels petty to admit it, but he doesn’t like the man much—he’s always grandstanding, and Rick has a feeling Philip Blake pays too much attention to everyone’s lives. 

“And the fish?” 

“Oh,” Daryl says, like he’s just remembered he’s left it marinating over the sink. “I caught it this morning. They bite a lot more farther up the stream.” 

He puts the cigarette out on one of the logs behind him—instead of on his hand, Rick can’t help noticing—and takes the butt with him to toss into the garbage can as he walks back into the kitchen, Rick in tow. 

Unsure of what to say, Rick keeps silent; of all the things he expected from Daryl, preparing him a meal wasn’t one of them. 

Daryl bows his head and starts nipping at the cuticle of one thumb, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “I, uh, used your vegetables,” he says like he’s apologizing, looking at Rick briefly from under his bangs. “Never cooked with fresh ones before. Hope it tastes good.” 

“I’m sure it will. Smells great, at least.” 

“You want coffee? I made us a bottle,” Daryl offers, already fetching the thermos. 

What time Daryl must have woken up to have had the time to make coffee, go to town, catch a fish, buy his cigarettes, come back home, as well as gut, clean, and season said fish? 

“Yeah, two teaspoons of sugar, please,” Rick says, divided between feeling taken care of and like a lazy prick who sleeps while other people work. 

Daryl hands him a warm cup of coffee a moment later, their fingers brushing for a second. It’s strong and sweet just the way Rick likes it. Daryl pours himself another cup and they drink in silence for a few minutes, the two of them facing each other, Rick leaning against the counter and Daryl against the sink. Rick notices he’s wearing the blue T-shirt and the pants from yesterday. 

“Good to see your clothes have dried,” Rick says. 

“Yeah, they were a little cold when I woke up, but I needed something to wear. I hung the rest out to dry and washed the backpack, too, if you don’t mind. It stank something awful from… y’know, falling in the river,” Daryl says. 

Rick doesn’t care for his tone—it’s like he’s walking on eggshells, as if Rick is taking tally of everything he says and does. 

“Be my guest,” Rick says, taking a final sip of his coffee. “I just hope that doesn’t mean you’re leaving soon.” 

Daryl shrugs, but it looks stiff rather than laid-back. “Was thinking of taking the first ferry at night. Just give us enough time to eat. Figured I could sneak in when no one was watching, between shifts or somethin’.” 

“Stay here,” Rick blurts out before he’s got time to think it over. The invitation comes as a surprise even to himself, especially when the whole reason he came to the cabin in the first place was to have some peace of mind after ending his marriage, on top of getting shot, and now he finds himself craving the company of a virtual stranger nearly fifteen years his junior. “For a few days. Rest a little before you’re on the road again. Beats squatting in on an empty house and stealing people’s firewood.” 

It’s a good offer, one that anyone in Daryl’s situation would have accepted without thinking twice, but Daryl takes his time, eyeing Rick from head to toe with a contemplative look. 

At last, he says, “Yeah, sure, why not. For a few days.”

* * *

Rick was never the kind to each much in the morning. When he was a street cop, before taking the bullet that put him on his back, he usually had nothing but a strong and sugary black coffee just to chase the sleepiness away before he headed out to the station. Then in the middle of the morning, he would get a doughnut, as stereotypical as it might be. Today, after the coffee Daryl made them, Rick keeps the habit of not eating the first few hours after waking up, and makes use of the caffeine buzz to get over with the PT he needs to do. 

Rick hates physical therapy. Not only it seems ridiculous that he needs exercises to relearn how to breathe, he hates PT because it makes him notice just how much he needs it, how much the gunshot combined with months on end lying on a bed have weakened him. He hates PT because every time he does it, it’s a new evidence of how fragile he is. 

Daryl asks if he can watch and Rick is okay with that, even if he doesn’t know why the man is even interested. At the hospital, a bulky man with incredibly gentle manners called Tyreese helped him with the exercises he was supposed to do—at first guiding him through them, then, as Rick got the hang of them, just telling him what to do and correcting his posture. But now that Rick is well acquainted with his exercise routine, he doesn’t see how having someone in the room with him is any help. 

He takes the purple rubber band from the wardrobe and sets it aside, choosing to start with the respiratory exercises first. Daryl leans against a corner of the bedroom, pushing the sole of his boot against the wall as he observes him. Rick feels a bit embarrassed to be watched with such attention, but tries to focus on his therapy instead. He places his arms in a straight line in front of his body, moving them up towards his head three times, going higher each time and taking progressively deeper breaths. The first couple of sets feel all right, but after the third, pain spreads through the base of his lungs. His chest is on fire like it used to feel after a demanding sprint, except now he feels it after just a few deep breaths in his room. After the fifth set, he’s exhausted, resting his palms on the mattress as he waits for the tiredness to go away. 

“The gunshot did that you?” Daryl asks, looking at his hunched shoulders. 

“A little. The bullet took some of the lung tissue, but the coma and the time I spent breathing through a tube down my throat didn’t help matters much,” he says, right before starting a new set of breathing exercises. 

As it turns out, Daryl’s presence in the room doesn’t feel awkward. He’s doing nothing but keep him company, but Rick realizes he doesn’t mind having him there. His silence is certainly better than the well-meaning but artificial cheering he got from Tyreese every time he managed to lift his arms above his head. “Go on! You can do it!” and “That’s right!” repeated every day, three times a day, quickly became annoying to hear. 

After finishing with the respiratory exercises, he takes the rubber band and stars with the strength and flexibility ones. Rick was never the muscular type, but before the shooting, his bench press was all right, and during foot chases, most perps usually got winded before Rick even got a chance to really break a sweat. Which is why it is now so disconcerting that he has to put all his strength behind something as simple as parting his legs around this stupid band. Still, he does the best he can, closely following every guideline Tyreese gave him before Rick was discharged from the hospital. He takes almost an hour going through all of the exercises with how often he needs to stop to rest, but Daryl doesn’t leave the room, doesn’t sigh or tap his foot to show how bored he is. When Rick collapses on the bed, worn out, he raises his eyes across the room and sees Daryl watching him with the same attentive look he had an hour ago. 

After catching his breath for a couple of minutes, Rick sits back up and takes a tube of gel from the nightstand’s drawer. He hesitates for a second before pulling his T-shirt over his head. The center of his scar is still pinkish, but most of it has turned dark brown. He’s a little surprised when Daryl approaches him, kneeling next to the bed. 

“This is where you were shot?” Daryl asks, despite the obvious answer. 

Rick nods. Daryl reaches out for the scar, but doesn’t touch it right away, his fingertips just hovering over the skin as if asking permission. Then he looks up, piercing him with those narrow, blue eyes, and Rick nods again, even if he doesn’t know why anyone would want to touch that mess. 

Rick squeezes the tube in his hand when the tip of Daryl’s fingers outline the raised border of the scar. 

Daryl spends a few seconds examining Rick’s skin until he notices the tube in Rick’s hand, and asks, “What’s that for?” 

“It’s to improve the scar’s appearance. I was supposed to apply it four times a day, but I always forget.” Rick shrugs. “I guess it doesn’t matter. It looks ugly, but it means I survived. They didn’t take me down.” 

Rick doesn’t know exactly what he’s said to warrant him such an intense look, but Daryl’s brow furrows as if he's studying him. His fingers touch Rick’s and Rick swallows hard, thinking Daryl wants to hold his hand, only to realize he was reaching for the tube of gel. 

Daryl nods at him, eyebrows raised in question and Rick nods back, both of them saying what they need in silence. 

Daryl unscrews the cap of the tube and squeezes clear gel on his fingertips. Rick sees the tiny round scars on the back of his hand and is taken by the urge to kiss each of them. Thankfully, he’s able to resist it. Daryl touches his gel-covered fingers on Rick’s scar, hesitantly at first, but in a moment his touch is firmer, like he’s trying to rub the gel in. The scar tissue on Rick’s torso is hardly an erogenous zone, but Rick finds his lips parting in a silent moan and he closes his eyes, feeling Daryl’s fingers sliding on his skin. He opens his eyes again a moment later and stares at Daryl, kneeling between his legs. Does he even know how much he affects Rick? This young man who walked into Rick’s life in such an unexpected manner, can he even tell how much a single touch of his makes Rick feel? 

The gel has dried and Daryl stops rubbing it in, just resting his palm over the scar. They lean into each other, so close Rick feels Daryl’s warm breath against his face, smelling of cigarettes and coffee. He closes his eyes again and swallows with a dry mouth, covering Daryl’s hand on his body with his own, holding it there, waiting for the moment their lips will meet and he’ll finally remember what feeling truly alive is like. 

But then, instead of closing the distance between them, Daryl pulls his hand away from Rick’s touch and stands up, that private world they were locked in together dissolving around them. 

Rick opens his eyes, dizzy and confused like he’s just woken up alone in the desert, and sees Daryl standing by the door, looking at him from over his shoulder, eyes low and tired. 

“I better get that fish in the oven,” he says before leaving the room.

* * *

Daryl is a bad conversationalist. It’s a hell of a change from Shane, who spews entire monologues at the slightest prompt. Having such a loudmouth for a friend got mildly annoying at times, but usually it was easy to just sit back, laugh when he was supposed to, and chime in with the occasional comment every now and then. That’s not how things work with Daryl, though, and it’s takes a little while to figure out what does work. 

So far, Rick has realized his best chance to get to know Daryl is to talk about himself. He won’t turn into a chatterbox like Shane—it’s not his style and he doesn’t think Daryl would like it either—but he notices sharing things about his own life sometimes gets Daryl to open up more. Rick talks to him about coming to the cabin with his father when he was a boy, the two of them fishing together and gathering acorns in the woods. When he tells him about the time he almost ate a poisonous mushroom when his father wasn’t looking, Daryl offers more details about getting lost in the woods—barely ten and surviving nine days alone in the open, eating wild berries, and wiping his ass with poison oak. 

“Should count myself lucky I didn’t find your deadly mushrooms,” he says and Rick laughs, but he can’t help feeling protective of the child Daryl once was. 

Then, while they wait for the fish to roast, Rick tells him about his first shooting lessons and why the Colt Python is his favorite weapon, and he finds out Daryl knows how to shoot as well—learned when his mysterious, problematic brother came back home from the army—but his weapon of choice is and will always be a crossbow. For years, he’d had one that he used to hunt with, until Merle—the brother’s name is Merle—pawned it, and neither of them had the money to get it back. Rick knows nothing about crossbows, but the way Daryl talks about it—a hundred fifty draw weight, fired a bolt three hundred feet per second—tells him Daryl really liked that bow, even if he shrugs like it doesn’t matter. Rick wonders how long ago that was, if there’s any chance that crossbow is still at the pawn shop—and how much would a new one cost in case Rick was buying. 

And so, with each drop of information Daryl slowly gives him, Rick feels he’s got a chance at actually getting to know him. 

They don’t talk much during lunch, too busy eating. At first, Rick tries to mind his table manners. But as soon as he looks across the counter and sees Daryl sucking the meat off the fish’s bones, fingers greased, he thinks _what the hell—_ they’re at home and alone, no need to be polite—and takes a slice of fish on his hands. Daryl lifts his eyes to Rick, watching him feast, and the way Daryl’s eyes smile while they eat like pigs is priceless. After eating, they sit together on the back porch, Daryl smoking a cigarette and Rick happy with just enjoying the other man’s presence, admiring the way he blows the smoke, puffing it out in the most creative ways Rick has ever seen. Everything about Daryl seems like an event to watch. 

In that lazy afternoon they share, Rick wonders what Daryl likes to do, what are his hobbies and if he even has them, or if his life is mostly worrying about survival. He wonders if the man has ever tried to put down roots, quit being a drifter, and if his brother has anything to do with why he hasn’t settled down. But he doesn’t ask any of those questions. As little as he knows about Daryl, he already knows _something_ —the troublemaker of a brother whose shadow Rick can still see on him, fending for himself even as a child, finding solace in the quiet woods with a crossbow and a sharp knife in his hands. Rick knows he just needs patience. Bombarding Daryl with questions will only lead him astray from the answers. 

It’s late afternoon when Rick takes a long bath. Once he’s finished, he goes looking for Daryl, but doesn’t find him immediately. He then checks outside and sees the hood of his car is popped open with Daryl bent over it. The moment he sees Rick, he straightens up, cleaning his greasy fingers on a dirty rag, talking about foul spark plugs, worn brake pads and whatnot, and that he _knew_ there was something off with the engine less than a mile into their ride last night. Maybe Rick ought to be mad that someone was poking around his car without even asking first, but all he can feel is self-satisfaction at finding out another tidbit for his Daryl puzzle—the man knows his way around engines and obviously enjoys that. 

The night comes faster to Rick than it ever did after waking up from the coma. Since he opened his eyes to the hospital’s white ceiling, the days are almost never-ending, each of them daring to be slower than the one before. Interacting with most people—all of them so careful like he’s made of glass—only made time slow down to almost freezing. Daryl’s presence, though, is nothing like that. They don’t even need to keep in touch—most times just being around each other is enough for Rick to feel at ease, which is astounding, considering they’ve only known each other for a day. Then again, as much as he sometimes forgets he barely knows Daryl, the reality that they’ve just met keeps emerging at odd times—like when he tries to reheat Daryl’s coffee and finds out the man likes to drink it cold, or when he notices Daryl has been using Carl’s grape-flavored toothpaste even if there is regular Colgate in the bathroom’s cabinet. 

When Rick retires to his bedroom at night, having offered Daryl a spare pillow to make his night on the couch more comfortable, he wonders if Daryl is a night owl, and if Rick looks like an old man, going to bed so early. Daryl thanks him for the pillow and heads to the bathroom to take a bath, closing the door while Rick watches him from the hallway. 

Already in his bed, Rick thinks of how close their mouths were this morning, remembers all his frantic thoughts while he jerked off the previous night. The ghost of Daryl’s touch on his stomach comes to him, and he considers touching himself again thinking of him, but the memory of Daryl fleeing his bedroom is too recent and too much of a turn-off. Luckily, he falls asleep before he’s able to think too much about that rejection.

* * *

As soon as he wakes up, Rick knows it isn’t morning yet. The curtains of his bedroom are too thin and betray any outside light and his room is pitch-black right now. He also knows his awakening was too sudden to be entirely natural—something has woken him up and the creak on the wooden floorboards tells him it’s someone. 

Rick’s hand goes to the switch on his bedside lamp, and even its faint light makes him frown. Daryl is in his room, wearing the dark green T-shirt with cut-off sleeves and tight briefs that look a lot like the ones he wore yesterday to sleep on the couch. Rick swallows hard, trying not to assume the reason why Daryl is in his room in the middle of the night. 

He expects Daryl to say something, but he just approaches him, barefoot, his steps quieter now. 

Rick sits up on the bed, stomach simmering when he asks, “Daryl? Something wrong?” 

But Daryl has already sat next to him on the bed, placing something on the nightstand that Rick can’t immediately tell what it is. They haven’t even touched yet and Rick already feels goose bumps spreading all over his body. The lamp’s shade diffuses the already dull light, casting shadows on Daryl’s face; the bangs on his forehead are long enough that Rick can’t figure out what his eyes are saying. But when Daryl’s hands touch Rick’s cheeks, fingers caressing the beard, there is no mistaking his intention. After that, it’s only a fraction of second before Daryl hooks a leg over his hips, straddling him, and joins their mouths. 

Rick gasps with the suddenness of the kiss, and Daryl makes use of the moment he parts lips to sneak a wet, warm tongue into his mouth. Daryl’s fingers close on the overgrown wavy hair on the back of his neck, pulling him closer, making their chests and stomachs touch. His thighs tighten around Rick, who feels the erection starting to form in the other man’s underwear. He thinks he moans a little at that, but his mouth is pressed tight on Daryl’s as they kiss hungrily, so he can’t know for sure. 

Everything about Daryl threatens to drive him wild—the softness of his skin when Rick finally wakes up from his surprise and embraces him tight, the rhythm he moves his hips on Rick’s lap, the intoxicating smell on his skin—and Rick tries very hard not to think of what changed. Why Daryl came to him in the middle of the night, in this furtive way, but fled in broad daylight when everything seemed to be leading to a kiss. Because the answer to that question might be that he’s dreaming and dwelling too much on it will make him wake up, and he doesn’t want to wake up. Not before he gets more of Daryl. 

Sometime into their kiss, Rick slides down from his sitting position, lying back on the bed, and the friction between them reaches new places. Daryl’s cock—big, hard, turned to the side inside the underwear that doesn’t hide much—grazes against Rick’s stomach unintentionally, but there’s nothing accidental about the way Rick’s cock rubs on Daryl’s ass. Rick also notices they aren’t exactly rubbing on each other—Daryl is taking care of him, teasing Rick with those fiery hips for all Rick’s worth, rubbing on him like he wants to make Rick come into his boxers, like he’s fifteen and not thirty-seven. Rick notices, with both dismay and wonder, as he sucks the tender flesh of Daryl’s healing lip into his mouth, how that isn’t far from reality. 

Rick lifts his hands from the small of Daryl’s back all the way to the nape of his neck, pulling on his hair and hoping it won’t hurt him. He doesn’t want this to be over, not at all, but he needs a second to catch his breath if he wants to last long enough for him to satisfy Daryl and not embarrass himself. Daryl probably got all the stamina in the world, being barely into his twenties, but Rick is pushing forty, and the time it would take him to get hard again, in case this ends abruptly on his end, is a little embarrassing. But then Daryl leans back, parting their lips and sitting upright, Rick’s cock fitting snugly between his ass cheeks, and there is a devilish air to him that makes Rick doubt himself. Even if he is so much older, he can’t see himself having trouble getting it up for Daryl. 

But that inner debate is short-lived. A moment later, Daryl’s lips are on him again, on his neck instead of his mouth, sucking marks there that would have worried Rick weren’t they so isolated from most people he knows. His neck is just a brief stop to that wicked mouth; it travels down Rick’s sternum in a straight line towards his belly, where Daryl halts just long enough to lick into his navel. It tickles him some, but all laughter abandons him as Daryl’s mouth descends his lower belly. 

It’s quite obvious where all the mouth action is going, and Rick is at the same time tense and aching for it; he hasn’t had a blowjob in such a long time, he’s afraid he’ll shoot come down Daryl’s throat the moment his lips touch Rick’s cock. When Daryl looks up at him, he might be quietly trying to ask him permission, but what Rick sees in his eyes is just want. 

When the tips of Daryl’s fingers touch the waistband of his boxer briefs, he stops breathing like someone who braces themselves to a heavy blow. But then Daryl lowers his underwear without touching his erection, pulling it down to his mid-thighs, and captures the head of Rick’s cock between his lips, swallowing it slowly all the way to the base, and the breath Rick was keeping in leaves his lips slowly in a moan that’s too loud for him not to be embarrassed about it. Good thing he’s got no neighbors at the moment. Daryl looks up at him and it’s a hell of a sight when Rick is so far down his throat. Rick’s head falls on the mattress, and this time, when Daryl pulls back only to swallow him down again, Rick is in control enough not to moan, but his breathing turns into a shallow thing punctuated by noisy gasps. 

Daryl does amazing things to Rick’s body; each line the tongue draws on his erection is a gift, each hot breath on his skin makes him squirm lying on the bed, each time Daryl hollows his cheeks and sucks hard draws a sigh from Rick. His hands find Daryl’s hair—so silky in his fingertips—and he runs his fingers through the scalp, wanting to do something that shows how much he’s loving each second of that, instead of just lying down, taking it. 

Then Daryl’s mouth is off his body and it takes all of Rick’s willpower not to protest. Daryl takes something from the bedside table—the unidentified object he brought—and Rick sees it’s three small packages. Two of them are sachets of lube, so small they look like free samples Daryl must have gotten from somewhere, and a condom. Rick swallows hard in anticipation and nervousness to what Daryl is probably going to do to him. 

Daryl pulls Rick’s underwear all the way down his legs and off his ankles and does the same to himself. Rick looks at Daryl’s cock, hard and shiny with precome and his first impulse is to touch, but before he can do it, Daryl rips open two of the packages, squeezing the lube on a pile a couple of inches above Rick’s navel. Rick feels his stomach simmering again, unsure if Daryl intends to use that lube on himself or on Rick. The way Rick’s cock twitches uselessly between his legs tells him he’s more than okay with either possibility. 

Daryl straddles him again, but keeps his hips high in the air as he scrapes some of the lube with two fingertips and takes it somewhere between his legs. 

“Lemme show you proper thanks for the hospitality,” he says. 

Despite Daryl’s provocative tone, and even if knowing what those fingers are probably doing gets Rick shaking with need, the words rub him off the wrong way. They sound like a bargain, a quid pro quo, and that’s not what Rick wants. 

“You don’t owe me anything,” Rick manages to say, but it’s hard to take his eyes off of that hand moving between Daryl’s thighs. 

Daryl frowns, slight incredulity cutting through his semblance, but he doesn’t stop what he’s doing, hips now rising and falling softly in time with his hand’s movements. 

“You mean you didn’t wanna kiss me this morning? You’re saying you didn’t want me the moment you saw me? That that isn’t the reason you let me stay here—fuck—” The question turns into a sob when his fingers, buried deep into his ass, do something that feels particularly good. 

Rick hates the implication of Daryl’s question—that he had an ulterior motive to offer Daryl shelter when he was so obviously down on his luck. It leaves an unpleasant taste in Rick’s mouth, especially when he realizes Daryl is partially right. He wanted Daryl from the instant he saw him fallen on the side of the road. He just didn’t know it back then. 

Hearing his silence, Daryl pants, “Heard you jerking off last night. You said my name.” 

Rick’s hands touch Daryl’s hips and squeeze in time with the pang in his heart. All day long—while they did PT together, ate fish and casually talked in the back porch—all along Daryl knew and didn’t say a word. 

The two of them don’t say anything for a moment, but Rick can hear pretty well Daryl’s soft gasps as he shoves his fingers inside himself, can see the way the young man’s eyes narrow with whatever he’s feeling, and he can’t find his voice to object. He doesn’t want to object. All he wants is Daryl. 

Fingers shaking, Rick rips the condom’s wrapper and tries to roll it down his cock, but it’s been too long since he last wore one and the lube around the latex makes his movements boyish and clumsy; the condom slips from his grasp all the time and he can’t roll it down his erection. He tries to use the tip of his fingers to keep the tip in place, but in his rashness, he ends up nicking the side of the condom with his nails right where he tried to rolled it down. The grunt he lets out is half frustration and half mortification. Fuck fuck _fuck._ He can’t believe he just fucked up something as simple as this. 

He pulls the ruined condom off his dick and tosses it on the floor next to the bed, feeling the skin of his chest and neck warm up. 

“You got another one?” he asks, voice nearly dying in his throat. 

Daryl shakes his head at the same time he says, “I don’t.” 

And that’s it. Rick fucked it up, ruined the only chance to do what they both—he wants to believe—want so badly. They stay in silence a moment longer, facing each other in the half-light—Rick might have just killed this, but he can’t help noticing Daryl’s fingers are still busy, and Rick wonders how many fingers he’s got inside, wishing he could watch him doing it. And then he finds himself saying something that should never be leaving his lips. 

“For the last sixteen years, I only slept with my wife. And we haven’t done it for over a year.” Which says jack shit about being safe, or else Lori wouldn’t be with Shane right now. So he amends, “I got tested at the hospital. I’m clean.” 

Daryl slips his fingers out of himself and uses those fingers to capture the last globs of lube on Rick’s stomach and wrap a slippery touch on Rick’s abandoned cock, still ridiculously hard, stroking it gently. Knowing Daryl had those fingers inside himself just a moment ago makes the touch feel even hotter. 

“I’ve never done it without a rubber—” Daryl starts. 

A wave that is equal parts disappointment and relief washes over Rick as he hears the words. Daryl is doing the right thing by saying no. 

“—but I got tested couple months ago, ‘cause of the tattoos. Clean as a whistle. Haven’t done anything since either.” 

It might be naïve of him, but Rick believes Daryl; he’s made the choice of believing anything the man says a long time ago, probably from the moment they met. 

“Then—please—” he pants and cuts himself short, too jittery, wanting to do this before common sense tries to catch up on them. 

The corners of Daryl’s lips curve in a way that isn’t properly a smile, but it’s something almost there, a little amused and a little smug, as if Daryl had just got the endgame he wanted all along. Rick closes his eyes and tries to take a deep breath, muscles tensing in anticipation; he knows he’s going to come fast—he just hopes it won’t be _too_ fast. 

Daryl holds his cock in place, and a shift on the mattress later, he’s straddling him again. Eyes still closed, Rick feels Daryl placing it against his opening. Daryl rests more weight on his thighs and Rick feels himself plunging into his warm body. His eyes fly open and he tosses his head back, whimpering for a moment before looking at Daryl on top of him. 

All of this is new to Rick. He’s never had sex with men before today, as much as his eyes have strayed, and he’s never suggested it to the women he had sex with—not to Lori or to the two girlfriends he had before her. It didn’t seem like they’d be interested in it, and even if they were, Rick was afraid he’d end up hurting them in his inexperience. But Daryl… the way he slides down Rick’s cock, breathy moans betraying his pleasure and maybe even a little bit of discomfort—it almost melts Rick’s brain how turned on he is watching that. 

Before Rick is ready, Daryl bottoms out, ass cheeks resting on Rick’s thighs, and he wastes no time to raise himself again, Rick’s cock slipping out almost entirely before Daryl lets himself be impaled again. Inside, Daryl feels hot and wet and delicious—and outside too, Rick noticing how feverish and slick with sweat Daryl’s skin is under his hands. 

Daryl starts riding him, hips undulating, fucking himself, and Rick already knows this is the best sex he’s ever had in his life. It’s going to be over very soon, so he grabs a hold of Daryl’s hips and thrusts from the bottom up, meeting him halfway, fucking him deeper and rougher. If he’s going to come fast, he better have something to show for himself before he does. On top of him, Daryl whimpers at the change of angle—it’s pleasure, but it’s surprise as well—and he bends over Rick’s body, resting his arms on Rick’s shoulders, but leaving his hips raised so Rick can fuck into him hard. 

It’s barely a minute into it and Rick’s thighs are already tired, his lungs are burning and sweat cascades down his calves—it’s probably the most intense work out Rick has been capable of since waking up. But his cock feels too good inside for him to stop. And that’s not the worst: Daryl’s got his nose touching his, frowning with such a confused expression, like he can’t understand how a human being can feel so much pleasure at once, and his dick—uncut, hard mouthwatering—is leaking precome on Rick’s stomach. 

Feeling the viscous fluid on his skin wakes something in him that even the ache in his tired muscles isn’t able to. He wants to see Daryl come—come like this, while he still got a hard cock stretching him open—as much as he wants to shoot his own load into the man. He sneaks one hand between their bodies and strokes Daryl’s cock, spreading precome along it. 

He hears Daryl groaning something that sounds a lot like _please,_ and shortly after a warm wave covers his stomach, Daryl’s entire body clenching on top of him and around him—and fuck if that’s not the perfect moment for it to happen, because Rick’s thighs feel like they’re about to give out. Thankfully, he only needs to thrust a few times after Daryl comes; even if he weren’t so close, there’s no way he’d last. Not with the way Daryl’s voice turns into a series of strained whimpers as Rick keeps fucking him after he comes. He doesn’t complain, just rakes his nails deeper and deeper on Rick’s chest, parted lips just touching his, taking everything Rick’s got to give in a surrender that is beautiful to see. 

Rick’s hands tighten on Daryl’s hips harder than he ever touched anyone in bed, and he can recognize the exact moment his body is catapulted to that point he knows he’s going to come no matter what happens, flooding Daryl with his seed and gasping for breath. On top of him, Daryl holds him close, arms around his head, lulling him through the aftershocks. 

Rick falls back on the mattress, heart beating faster than it ever had the past few weeks. After catching his breath for a minute, Daryl dismounts him, Rick’s softening cock sliding out easily, and the sudden absence of that delicious heat feels weird for a moment—but no weirder than the drops of come he feels sliding down his half-hard cock. His sheets are sweaty and a mess, but it doesn’t bother him. On the contrary—in the morning, they’ll look like evidence of what they did, and he’s happy to have anything that proves this really happened, that he didn’t dream it up. 

Part of Rick fears Daryl will get up, put on his underwear, and flee the bedroom in a hurry, skittish creature that he is, but to his surprise, the young man lies down next to him. Rick pulls him closer and Daryl doesn’t resist, but hesitates a little before resting his head on Rick’s chest. Rick touches his hair, pushing the bangs away from his forehead, and kisses the sweaty skin. 

Daryl worms closer, pressing himself against him, his body a perfect fit against Rick’s. The transition between vigil and sleepiness is fast but so smooth Rick can’t even tell he’s falling asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all are the loveliest readers an author could hope for. Thank you.  
> (I've read this chapter so many times I can't tell if it's good or bad anymore. For the time being, I'll pretend it's awesome and just publish it.)


	4. All the Good Things

Rick wakes up alone. His hand reaches out to the other side of the mattress, touching the place where someone else’s body should be, but he finds no one. The sheets are cold, indicating Daryl has gotten out of bed a while ago. Did he sneak out right after Rick fell asleep or did he leave the bedroom in the morning? Rick sits up, wondering what each of those two possible outcomes say about the night he just had. Damn him for being such a heavy sleeper.

Cleaning up and changing didn’t cross his mind last night, and the dried come is making his pubes and dick itch a little. He takes a change of clothes and opens the door. The moment he steps outside, a metallic sound greets him, and when he reaches the bathroom door, he sees Daryl placing a frying pan into the sink. A tall pile of recently made pancakes rests on a plate on the countertop.

He closes his fist tighter around the change of clothes, nearing the counter in a detour from his trip to the bathroom. Maybe he should stop feeling surprised every time Daryl cooks them something—after all, he’s the one who set the trend with the sandwich he made on the first night.

“‘Morning,” Daryl says, looking back at him. His hair is combed and he smells of soap.

Rick runs a hand through his tousled hair; he probably looks a mess, skinny bowed legs showing, sheet wrinkles on his cheek, his underwear stained with several bodily fluids.

“You made pancakes,” Rick says by way of greeting. “I didn’t know we had any milk.” He didn’t bring any from home, and didn’t get any from the store when he arrived either.

“We didn’t. That old man, Dale, brought some this morning.” Daryl gestures towards the front door. “You just missed him.”

Rick frowns; he must really have slept like the dead if Dale came to his house, delivered them milk, and he slept through all of it. He was supposed to be alone, so it was probably quite a shock for Dale to find a stranger there instead. Whatever Daryl said to justify his presence is something Rick would love to hear; as much as part of him is worried about what the two of them might have talked about, he’s also marginally glad he wasn’t the one to give explanations. How could he explain his current situation to anyone when he doesn’t make sense of it himself?

Daryl sits by the counter and watches him, while pouring maple syrup on a stack of pancakes. “I asked him if he wanted me to wake you up, but he said no.”

Daryl’s tone is apologetic and Rick realizes his prolonged silence was probably interpreted as reproach, so he clears his throat and says, “It’s all right.” He tries to sound unconcerned but isn’t sure of how well he succeeds. “Did he… say anything? Did he leave a message?”

“Said he was sorry he forgot ‘bout the milk. That Lori has been calling, and you should swing by the store whenever you had the chance,” he says, around a mouthful of pancakes.

“Oh, right. Thanks,” Rick says, limbs growing cold at the mention of his ex-wife.

He forces himself to remember the last time he looked at his cell phone—back on the road, when he thought of calling 911, but saw Daryl stirring. After everything that happened and with Daryl’s unexpected company, Rick had completely forgot about the phone. Christ, he was supposed to have called as soon as he landed, let them know he was all right, but it totally slipped his mind. Lori values her privacy, so for her to go as far as calling Dale and asking him to check in on Rick, she must have tried to reach him a thousand times to no avail. Fuck. Could Dale have spoken to her again, after returning from the cabin? Would he have said anything about Daryl being there? Rick hopes not—Dale isn’t a tattletale, but the fatherly concern he always had towards Rick’s family might cause him to talk.

“I made coffee, if you want.”

Rick notices he’s gone quiet again and shakes himself out of his musings. “‘Course, I—I’ll just—” He waves the hand holding the change of clothes vaguely towards the hallway.

Daryl nods, looking at his plate, and Rick stares at him a second longer before retreating to his bedroom. The pants he wore yesterday are hanging from a hook behind the door; he pats its pockets and feels the familiar rectangle in one of them. He presses the button below the dark screen, but nothing happens—the cellphone is dead. He finds an old charger in the nightstand’s drawer and unplugs the bedside lamp, so he can use the power socket on his phone instead. The moment he connects the charger, the screen blinks back to life, the pixels picturing a battery rhythmically filling up with red and emptying again. He waits a moment and holds down the on-off button for a few seconds.

A short animation with the brand and model of the cellphone appears before he sees the familiar lock screen, where he draws the safety pattern. It immediately buzzes for ten straight seconds with the amount of missed calls and text messages. Most of them are from Lori; _would you just pick up, for Christ’s sakes?_ and _if you don’t answer, we’re coming over_ are the two most recent ones. His stomach drops and he checks the time stamp—she had sent them almost an hour ago. One of the messages is from Shane, though. Rick can almost hear the tentativeness in his words. _hey man. I know we ain’t talking, but would u call Lori? she’s worried and tbh I am too. just let us know u didn’t drive yourself into a ditch._

He’s already pressed the telephone icon on the app screen, bent on making sure they don’t come to the cabin, but he stops himself before he even types Lori’s contact. He can’t talk to either of them before finding out what Dale has told her. He mulls it over for a few seconds before hitting Reply on Lori’s latest text and typing a curt, _I’m alright. No need for you to come. I’ll call later._ He hits Send and holds the on-off button again, watching the cellphone’s bright screen be replaced by the battery icon emptying and filling up again.

After that, he finally heads to the bathroom. Behind closed doors, he relieves himself and takes a short and much needed bath. Daryl’s pancakes must be cold by now, but he needs a moment to steel his nerves. Whatever Daryl has said to Dale and how much of it, if anything, Dale has decided to share with Lori, there’s nothing Rick can do about it now. He won’t pressure Daryl for details about this morning’s meeting either; the young man’s words from last night—thanking him for the hospitality—are bad enough without it looking like Rick is trying to hide him. Besides, Daryl will probably be out of his life soon, so there’s no reason to bother him with his family troubles. The time they still got together is most likely short—young as he is, Daryl won’t want to chain himself to a man like Rick for more than a few days—and he wants to make the best of it, enjoy Daryl’s company all he can.

When he finally leaves the bathroom, Daryl has eaten half of the pancakes. Rick takes a seat across him and drinks his sugary black coffee with occasional bites of pancake. He’s eating it plain, but Daryl’s are soaked in syrup. It’s hard not to watch him eat, making a mess as big as he did with the fish the day before. Now that Rick has seen all the things that clever mouth can do, though, it’s impossible to watch Daryl sucking sticky syrup off his fingers and not remember how those lips had felt on his body. It’s genuinely the way he eats, not some kind of show he’s putting on for Rick’s benefit, which in turn makes Rick feel like a lecherous creep by how much the sight affects him.

Daryl stops, one fingertip hanging from his syrup smeared lips, looking back at him. “What?”

Rick can’t even be discreet when he stares. He’s no good at talking about his feelings, as his arguments with Lori demonstrate, but keeping to himself is starting to feel worse. As much as he wants Daryl, he needs to clear the air. He won’t go another second with Daryl thinking he’s some kind of bastard who takes advantage of people.

“I meant it last night.” It’s a struggle to get that much out of his chest, but he knows a handful of words aren’t going to cut it, so he goes on. “About you not owing me anything. What happened last night—” _was wonderful_ and _was the best sex of my life_ are on the tip of his tongue, but that isn’t the message he’s trying to convey. He swallows. “—doesn’t need to happen again. You didn’t owe it to me then and you sure as hell don’t owe it to me now. You’re welcome to stay as long you want to, but you don’t—we don’t—” He exhales, unsure of how to finish his sentence.

“I get it,” Daryl says, deadpan to the point of austerity, as he rises from his seat and moves to the sink to do his dishes.

Rick wonders if the tension in Daryl’s shoulders is because he wishes he could take back what they did last night—damn Rick for letting his dick call all the shots. Rick is ready to have Daryl distance himself back from him now that he’s off the hook, but after he’s done with the dishes, he turns back to Rick and the strain is all but gone from his posture.

“Wanna do PT?” he asks, nonchalant.

Rick nods and smiles, a weight lifting off him as well, happy that he hasn’t lost this, at least. Daryl might not be interested in being his lover, but if friendship is still on the table, Rick counts himself lucky. Today, Daryl involves himself more in Rick’s therapy, even if it’s small things, like handing him the materials he needs, correcting his count when he does fourteen repetitions instead of fifteen, and pulling softly on his arms to help him reach a deeper stretch. After PT is over, Rick removes his T-shirt and starts rubbing the gel on his scar himself, but Daryl quickly takes over the task. His fingers don’t linger like they did yesterday, though, and he’s nothing but efficient.

Afterwards, they hang by the front porch together, Daryl resuming his work on the car and Rick sitting on a rocking chair, rereading his favorite Stephen King novel. His attention is only partially to the book, though. Fumbling with the car is the best opportunity Rick gets to admire him without Daryl noticing his scrutiny. To Rick, the parts under the hood are nothing but greasy pieces of metal, but Daryl studies them, listens to them like they’re living things and his enthusiasm and concentration are fascinating to see.

At noon, they eat the rest of the pancakes, but the syrup runs out quickly after the liberal amounts Daryl ate earlier that morning, and he starts to investigate the cupboards, looking for anything to quell his sweet tooth, but what he finds is entirely different. He pulls out a clear bottle with amber liquid in it, its label depicting a stag with imposing antlers. The seal is open, but the bottle is nearly full.

“ _Cazadores_ , _añejo_ tequila,” Daryl reads as he sets it over the counter. “Someone was planning a party.”

Rick snorts and takes the bottle, looking at it with nostalgic admiration. “ _Cazadores!_ Wow, really? I can’t believe there’s still one of those here. The last time I drank this, I was sixteen, playing I Never with Shane and two girls.” In his enthusiasm over a juvenile memory, he forgot Daryl has no idea who Shane is. “Shane is…” He clears his throat. “A childhood friend. The same friend who is currently with my wife.”

He expects to hear a comment about it, but Daryl takes the bottle off his hands instead, unscrewing the lid and taking a sniff.

“Damn. How long has this shit been here?”

Rick chuckles. “It’s just the brand my dad used to drink. He used to take a shot sometimes, after a long day or during his fishing trips. I don’t think I actually ever saw him do it though. I guess he tried not to do it in front of me.”

“Lucky you,” Daryl says, a shadow passing by his features. It’s gone a second later. “So you and your buddies used to break into your daddy’s liquor cabinet to play some game?”

Rick shrugs. “Everyone’s done that at least once, right? Getting drunk on I Never is like a rite of passage. But for Shane it was all about the girls. He never wanted to play with just us guys and he always ended the game making out with someone.”

“How do you play?” Daryl asks.

“You really don’t know this game?” It’s hard to imagine growing up without silly games like Truth or Dare, I Never, and Seven Minutes in Heaven. Damn, most girls he kissed before Lori happened through those games Shane was always egging him on to participate.

“Never needed a game to get lit before.”

 _And to make out?,_ Rick wants to ask but doesn’t. It would sound too much like flirting, and he shouldn’t send mixed signals after all the trouble he went through to clear things up. So he limits himself to explain the rules, taking a moment to recall the details of a game he hasn’t played in twenty years.

“First I say something I've never done, and if you’ve done it, you drink. If you haven't, I drink. Then we switch.”

Daryl frowns. “That’s a weird game. How’s it end with people making out?”

Rick shrugs. Maybe it’s a teenage thing needing an excuse to act on your wishes, be it to drink or to kiss someone; then again, Rick is thirty-seven and he wasn’t exactly forthcoming about his desire for Daryl, so maybe he shouldn’t be so quick to judge.

“I dunno. Guess it’s the alcohol lowering people’s inhibitions, making ‘em admit things they wouldn’t otherwise. It was easy for Shane. After a few rounds, he’d just say something like, ‘I’ve never kissed Andrea Harrison,’ and that turned into a reason for Andrea Harrison to change that fact.”

Daryl looks at the bottle for a moment, before turning to the dish rack and taking two mugs.

“So let’s play.”

Rick snorts, sliding his fork through the empty plate in front of him, but Daryl’s expression tells him he means business. Rick’s first reaction is to wonder what time it is—a little after noon, probably around 1 PM. Definitely too early to start drinking. But then he looks at Daryl and the bottle in his hand and thinks, _Too early why?_ He’s alone in the woods with a man he fiercely wants to get to know better, and that silly game is a pretty straightforward way of achieving that. Besides, it was Daryl’s offer. Why would he say no?

So he nods slowly, fighting the smile that wants to take over his lips and losing.

“All right, Daryl, let’s play I Never.”

Daryl smirks at him, and takes the bottle to the living room, sitting down on the floor next to the couch. Rick takes the mugs he left on the counter and sits next to him, crossing his legs and ignoring why Daryl chose hard wooden floor over the comfy cushions. The young man pours an inch of tequila to each of them, then there is silence, each of them cradling their mugs in their hands.

Rick breaks the ice and goes first. “I’ve never shot a crossbow. Now you drink.”

Daryl frowns, but lifts the mug to his lips, downing the tequila in one sip and immediately pouring himself more. “Ain’t much of a game.”

“That was just a drill. Now it’s your turn. Aim for something you think I’ve done so you’re not the only one drinking.”

Daryl nibbles on one of his nails. “I dunno.”

“Then forget what I said. Just tell me anything about you. Doesn’t matter what.”

“I’ve never been outta Georgia.” Daryl waits for something to happen, anticipating Rick drinking his shot. When Rick doesn’t, he lifts an eyebrow. “Really?”

“What can I say? My dad’s idea of a vacation was coming to this cabin, fishing all day, smoking cigars till he fell asleep. And now I turned into my old man, except for the cigars. When I married—” He almost says her name, but cuts himself short. Daryl might have deduced who Lori is from Dale’s message, sure, but Rick would rather not confirm it. He doesn’t want Daryl thinking he and Lori are closer than they actually are, with her sending him messages and such. “When I married my ex-wife, she was already pregnant with our son. We couldn’t afford a honeymoon back then, and after that, Carl was too little to travel. When he got a little older, we tried going to the Grand Canyon, but he got sick in the car. We didn’t even make it past Georgia’s border.”

It’s his turn again, and this game has no right to make him more nervous now than it did when he was sixteen. _I’d never been with men until last night_ is on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn’t say that. First because the game is to say something you never did, not something you got to do for the first time recently, and second because that, too, sounds too much like flirting, like he’s forcing a situation.

So what he ends up saying is, “I’ve never ridden a motorcycle before.”

The words have barely left his lips and Daryl has already drunk his shot.

“The first time I was fourteen. Rode pillion with Colton, one of Merle’s tweaker friends. It was barely a mile, just from our motel to the tweaker’s house. But I got to smell the leather, feel the engine roaring between my legs, the wind on my face… Nothing had ever felt that good. We were piss poor, could barely afford shoes, but at that moment, I decided I’d have my own chopper someday. When Merle went MIA, I got to keep his bike for a while. It was a janky little thing, but I still liked it.”

Rick watches him talk with reverence, hanging on every word. They should make this a rule for I Never—not only should you drink when you have done something, but you should talk at length about the experience.

“You ain’t playing this for real.” Daryl points a finger at him in mock accusation. “I can tell.”

It’s true, but Rick defends himself all the same. “Maybe I just want to get you drunk and talking.”

All right, that does sound a bit like flirting, but it escapes his lips before he can help himself.

“You think I’m tight-lipped?” Daryl says, and fuck, it’s like asking if the sky is blue.

“You are, but that only means I appreciate it even more when you do talk.”

Daryl’s lips tremble and its corners curve upwards slightly, like he’s trying not to smile. “I’ve never…” He pauses and sits upright, staring at Rick intently. “Never had a—a _relationship_ before.” He utters the word like it’s the first time it’s ever left his lips. “Hell, I’ve never even fucked the same person more than once before.”

Those are two I Never in one round, but Rick doesn’t point it out because, like he said, he appreciates every piece of information about Daryl. His stomach flutters a little when he drinks his shot; Daryl’s confessions are the perfect setup for Rick to offer to change that. That is what Shane would have said anyway, but Rick isn’t bold like that. Besides, he can’t bring himself to make such an offer after his “doesn’t need to happen again” speech from earlier that morning. He looks frantically for things to say that don’t sound like he’s downright coming on to Daryl, but aren’t so random that they sound like deflection either, and it’s the hardest task in recent memory.

“I’ve never had anyone cook for me,” he says and immediately regrets it.

What kind of I Never is that? As a child, all his nourishment depended on his parents, and Lori had cooked at least one of his daily meals for the past sixteen years—far be it from him to ever downplay her hard work as a housewife.

“Well—what I mean is—Fuck, that came out wrong. You’re the only one who ever cooked for me without having to.”

And once again, that doesn’t sound right, because Lori never _had_ to cook for him, wasn’t her obligation, and it’s shitty to even suggest otherwise—which isn’t at all what he was trying to say. Maybe it’s the alcohol, but he’s having trouble explaining why, when Lori cooked, it felt like she was fulfilling her role in a family, whereas when Daryl did it, it felt like a gift to him. He tries to phrase it a dozen different ways, but it never makes sense outside the confines of his mind, and he curses again under his breath.  There’s no way just three shots of tequila are responsible for him painting himself into a corner like that.

Daryl snorts and takes another shot, but now Rick can’t tell anymore if he’s drinking because yes, someone has cooked for him before, or because Rick has fucked up the game entirely and he just wants another shot.

“No one’s ever kissed me. Not the way you did,” Daryl says. His gaze is piercing and he worries at his bottom lip briefly, his tongue darting out to touch the place where his teeth have just been, and this time it’s hard to believe Daryl isn’t doing any of it on purpose.

“I—” Rick’s saliva is thick inside his mouth. He swallows and starts again. “You shouldn’t do anything you don’t want to.”

Daryl leans in and Rick’s heart flutters at the proximity, but for the moment, Daryl is just taking the mugs and the bottle and putting them out of reach. He doesn’t pull back afterwards, though, keeping his face just inches away from Rick’s.

“Let _me_ worry ‘bout what I want and don’t want. What do _you_ want to do, Rick Grimes?”

Rick blinks slowly, his eyelids heavy. “I wanna do everything other people didn’t do to you.” Shit. That’s not right. No one has ever killed Daryl and he definitely doesn’t want to do that. “Christ. All the _good_ things. The good things you never got to try—I wanna do them all to you.”

He pushes one lock of dark hair behind Daryl’s ear, unable to resist touching his face, and is ready to pull his hand back, but Daryl leans into his palm, kisses it right below the thumb, and he freezes.

“Show me then. All those things you wanna do to me,” Daryl whispers, his breath a faint whiff on Rick’s skin.

Rick heard him just fine, he knows he’s allowed to, but he still finds it hard to act on his urges, to do anything more than touch the soft skin of Daryl’s cheek.

“Want you, Rick. You don’t want me anymore?”

Rick crushes his lips on Daryl’s, a dominant kiss he hopes will erase any senseless idea that Rick is anything but mad about him. He pulls Daryl on top of him, making the young man straddle him as he suck on his bottom lip, lacing fingers behind Daryl’s neck. Their dynamic is different from the night before; the sun is shining through the windows and they can see each other well every time they part to breathe, but their movements are less feverish than yesterday, alcohol making them more languid. Right now, it feels more like something they’re doing together instead of something Daryl is doing to him.

As they devour each other, Daryl’s thighs tighten around Rick’s waist and he gasps into the kiss, lowering one hand from Daryl’s neck to his back, scratching him from over his T-shirt all the way down his spine. When he grabs the T-shirt’s hem, though, he notices Daryl’s hesitation. He parts their lips and pulls his head back a few inches, giving Daryl a questioning look.

Daryl keeps silent and just takes Rick’s hand and slides it underneath the fabric, his eyes filled with apprehensive expectation. Rick doesn’t get it at first, but as his fingertips stroke Daryl’s back, he notices several raised welts on the skin—scars, Rick realizes. The number of them and how they’re scattered on the other man’s back make it obvious this was no accident; whoever put them there did it on purpose. Rick doesn’t know how long ago that happened, has no idea whether Daryl is staying in his life or not, doesn’t care that they’ve only known each other for two days—he already hates whoever did this to him, wishes them a gruesome death if they aren’t already dead.

But he doesn’t want to lose this moment to hatred. They look into each other’s eyes, noses touching, mouths close, and Rick has never felt this connected to anyone before. There is doubt in Daryl’s eyes, but Rick is able to see the uncertainty for what it is—the lust is obvious, but so is the naked fragility in allowing someone to get close. He squeezes Daryl’s waist, fingertips touching a tangle of scars, and closes the distance between their lips again, kissing him hungrily.

Daryl, however, lifts himself from Rick’s lap and takes a step back, standing in the middle of the living room. He pulls the T-shirt over his head and tosses it to a corner, undoing his fly afterwards. He isn’t wearing any underwear, and the moment he lowers his pants, the too big erection bounces free, the head shining wet with precome. Daryl’s cock is so hard, jutting out from his body in a perfect straight line, Rick can’t help but wonder what it would feel like to sit on it, have it invading his body, stretching him open.

But that is an experiment for a different day, he muses as he lifts himself to his knees, trembling hands already grabbing a hold of Daryl’s hips. Now it’s time to try something he’s obsessed with for days now. Rick looks up at Daryl, taking a moment to admire his blushing cheeks and hazy eyes, before he closes his lips around the glans, delighting at the moan he hears.

Daryl’s precome doesn’t taste that differently from Rick’s. It’s the same salty, heady taste he loves to feel on his tongue, but there’s something unique in tasting it directly from the source, Daryl’s cock feeding him the viscous, addictive fluid. He was right to think he couldn’t get much of Daryl into his mouth, no matter how hungry for it he is, because he gags right after moving his head a few times. He coughs with the dick still inside his mouth and the spasm must have felt good to Daryl, judging by the way he gasps. Rick never thought he’d ever find gagging pleasant, but there’s something wicked in the thought of choking because there’s too much cock in his mouth. Even so, Rick is only human and needs a lot more air than he’s currently getting, so he pulls back, letting Daryl’s dick slide from his lips with a slurping sound.

At least all that gagging did a fine job covering Daryl with saliva, and Rick’s hand glides smoothly on his dick as he strokes him. He focuses on jerking Daryl off, but gets playful with his mouth whenever he can, tonguing the slit of Daryl’s cock and sucking on his balls softly. He’d happily spend the entire afternoon doing nothing but that, but Daryl stills his wrist and pulls his own hips back when Rick tries to swallow him down again.

He wonders if he’s done something wrong, but then Daryl is struggling with his jeans, still pooled around his ankles. Once he’s free of the annoying garment, he lies down on the floor in front of Rick, pulling his knees towards his shoulders.

“I need you to fuck me,” Daryl says.

Such a short word shouldn’t make that much of a difference, but the fact Daryl said _need_ instead of _want_ ignites a fire within Rick. Even so, he pauses for a moment, taking in the view before him. It’s different watching Daryl like this, in broad daylight, his naked body in such a revealing position. Every inch of Daryl’s skin is a gift to the eyes, but he can’t stop staring at his perfectly round asshole, light brown around the edges and a vivid pink right in the center. When Rick looks up at his face, though, there’s something so demure in his slight frown and agape mouth that Rick grunts at the sight.

“Something wrong?” Daryl asks, blushing bright red, and his hands loosen their grip on the back of his knees, legs closing a little.

But then Rick’s body is on top of his, placed between his thighs.

“You’re perfect,” he pants next to Daryl’s ear, touching two fingertips to the young man’s lips.

Daryl closes his eyes, sucking on Rick’s digits and moaning softly around them. His neck is a pale column inviting Rick to leave his own marks there; his lips close on Daryl’s throat, his tongue licking the place where the blood pumps harder, while he rubs his still clothed erection on Daryl’s inner thigh. A moment later, he pulls his fingers free and they’re soaked in saliva just as they need to be. He worms that hand down between their bodies, touching one fingertip on the opening behind Daryl’s balls, but only applies pressure after Daryl nods at him. He buries that finger to the hilt and fucks Daryl with it a few times before retreating and trying again with two.

This time, the ring of muscle feels a lot tighter, and he moves a lot slower, waiting for Daryl to catch his breath as he pants with two of Rick’s fingers stuck in his ass. But Daryl, as full as he is, is also an eager little thing, and starts to squirm on Rick’s hand, trying to get more inches inside himself, moving and down on Rick’s hand. That helps to loosen him up, and in no time, Rick is fucking Daryl with his fingers while the young man does everything he can to help.

Rick notices Daryl is trying to tell him something, but it’s hard to understand the syllables lost in his moaning. Instead of making it easier for him, Rick thrusts his fingers deeper, hearing the disjointed sounds get even more incomprehensible as Daryl groans.

At last, Daryl manages to say, “Finger me towards my balls, like you wanna tickle me.”

Rick spends maybe two seconds trying to make sense of the instructions before he finds that rigid spot inside Daryl, and starts moving his fingers there, curling his digits on it and around it. He must be doing something right, because Daryl’s entire body lights up with that focused touch. Rick finds himself sliding a third finger inside without meaning to, but Daryl’s body welcomes him inside eagerly, melting with pleasure.

Daryl looks beautiful writhing on his hand and stopping is so goddamn hard, but he pulls his fingers free, moaning himself at the frustrated whimper Daryl gives him. Rick pulls his T-shirt over his head and takes off his sweatpants; as amazing as last night was, all he wants right now is to be as naked as Daryl, feel the warmth of his skin on his own flesh, feel their sweats mixing together.

“You got more of those little packets of lube?” Rick says, his body almost shaking with how much he wants to be inside Daryl.

Daryl opens his mouth to answer, but Rick shoves those three fingers back inside him, and a moan escapes his lips before he’s able to form a single word.

He swallows and tries again. “No. Those were the last I had.”

Rick’s fingers don’t stop working, but his mind is frantic, trying to think of anything he might have in the cabin that is safe enough to use as lube.

“I—I can do it with just—”

Rick’s strokes on his prostate are almost vicious and Daryl has a hard time talking with how ragged his breathing is. Rick is definitely interested in what he has to say, but he feels strangely proud every time he makes Daryl lose his train of thought. His cock is also leaking freely on his stomach, and Rick bends down, capturing all the precome with a broad swipe of his tongue.

Daryl’s body visibly twitches, but a moment later he’s able to say, “—with just spit. Take it easy and we’ll be good.”

“You sure?” Rick asks, but he’s already salivating at the prospect of fucking Daryl with just their spit to ease the way.

Daryl nods, and Rick pulls back a little, lowering his eyes to his fingers sliding in and out of Daryl’s body, his hole giving in to the intrusion. He sits back on his heels, aims, and a mouthful of spit dribbles from his lips, landing on the crook between his middle and forefinger. Rick is mesmerized, watching the way his digits carry the wetness into Daryl’s body.

Looking at Daryl lying in front of him like that, spread open and so willing, Rick is reminded of something he always wanted to try—watched it plenty of times on an anonymous tab on his phone while jerking off in the bathroom—but never got the opportunity. The off chance Daryl won’t want to do it only crosses his mind after he’s already bent between the young man’s thighs, mouth and tongue fighting for space alongside his fingers, and then it doesn’t matter anymore, because Daryl’s loud moan can only be of pleasure. The way he pushes down on Rick’s face erases any remaining doubt.

With Rick’s mouth and fingers working so earnestly on his asshole, tongue tracing the abused rim, Daryl is ready to be fucked in no time. Still, Rick finds it hard to stop, the taste of Daryl too delicious to let go.

“Will ya just me fuck already?” Daryl moans. “Need it, Rick. Need it so bad.”

Hearing that makes Rick at the same time want to torment Daryl all afternoon, tease and deny him to the point he begs to come, and just go ahead and give him what he wants. Rick wants to be inside him, wants to consume him, come undone in an explosion of pleasure with him. He slides his fingers out and sticks them briefly into Daryl’s mouth, scooping all the saliva pooling there and stroking his own cock with it. He spits on himself, too, get his dick as slippery as he can, before positioning himself between Daryl’s thighs and placing the head of his cock against Daryl’s needy hole.

He pushes in slowly, sinking into the small heaven that is the other man’s body, feeling the warmth engulf him. Daryl’s arms go around his neck, drawing him closer as his ankles cross around his waist. They move together, Rick’s rhythm in short measured thrusts, fucking into Daryl as fast as his recovering body allows it. This time, they’re too close to each other for Rick to be able to jerk him off, but he feels the hardness and the wetness of precome and sweat against his skin.

There’s no telling which of them moves faster, Rick spearing him with cock or Daryl impaling himself on his erection. Rick is lost in a fog of pleasure, lost in an euphoria that grows the closer he gets to orgasm. He knows he’s saying something amid his gasps for air, but he takes a moment to understand his own words.

“Stay with me. Stay with me.” He feels like a lost man who finally found his way home. “Daryl, please—god—”

He comes deep inside Daryl’s body, kissing somewhere between his jawline and his neck, drinking the sweat pours there, tasting the other man’s skin. He rests his body heavily on Daryl, who is breathing as him, and when their stomachs meet, Rick feels the added wetness there. God, he didn’t even notice the moment Daryl came. They spend a couple minute like that, Rick feeling Daryl’s heartbeat against his own ribcage, enraptured by the steady rhythm.

As his dick grows softer, Daryl’s body slowly pushes him out. Rick doesn’t fight it and uses that moment to get off of him, lying on the floor next to the other man. Outside, the sky is tinted with orange, the gentle sunlight turning Daryl’s hair a lighter brown.

After exerting himself so, Rick doesn’t feel drunk anymore. The only thing left is the lethargy and slight hunger he always feel when sobering up. He turns his head to the side, watching Daryl next to him, glorious and perfect like a young god.

Daryl turns his head towards him as well and they stare at each other for a moment.

“I never got drunk like we did today,” Daryl’s voice breaks the silence, low and hesitant. “Just… hanging out, talking. Getting fucked so good.” Pink spreads faintly on his cheeks. “I used to be a dick when I was drunk. Never did me no good. Must’ve had at least a dozen close calls with death gettin' wasted with Merle and his buddies.” He swallows and lowers his eyes briefly. “All my life, gettin' drunk was… a way of fucking shit up. Was ‘bout hate. But today, with us, it was…” He shrugs and casts his eyes down again.

Rick lies on his side, facing Daryl, and fold one arm under his head. “This afternoon wasn’t about the alcohol,” he says. Everything he and Daryl did together the past couple days are ordinary things he did all the time with Lori, but it was never the same, at least not as far as he can remember. For years now, it all had a disinterested undertone at best. “It’s about the company. The tequila didn’t matte. The fish, the car, PT… None of it did. What matters is that it was you and me.”

It might be a huge mistake to bare himself so for someone he practically just met. Shane would have called him sappy if he could hear him. But the words don’t feel wrong as they come out of his mouth. On the contrary: when he’s with Daryl, it feels right.

Daryl lies on his side as well, sneaking closer to Rick, and resting a hesitant hand on his waist. Rick inches even closer, and when Daryl talks again, Rick feels his breath on his own skin.

“Y’know… I was telling the truth yesterday.” His eyes dart to the side for a moment before he makes himself stare at Rick again. “When I said I wandered this way ‘cause I remembered these cabins, that I got lost in these woods as a kid. It’s true.” He stops again for such a long time Rick doesn’t even think he’s going to continue, but then he resumes his speech. “On the way to the ferry, you said you were headed to the family’s cabin. I thought you might mean these, but I couldn’t be sure. Hoped you did. I checked every cabin on the way here till I saw your car parked out front.”

Rick closes his eyes for a moment, smiling. Maybe he isn’t the only one. Maybe Daryl wants him back just as much. It might be just alcohol and endorphins talking, but maybe they’re the real deal.

Rick opens his eyes again and places an affectionate kiss on Daryl’s lips. “I’m glad you found me. I’m glad you’re here.”

Their next kiss is unhurried, intimate.

Now that Daryl has found him, Rick can only hope he doesn’t leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for all your patience. This chapter was so difficult to write you have no idea.


	5. Not a Stranger

It doesn’t take long for the wooden floor to start feeling too unforgiving for them to keep lying there. Rick isn’t the only one hungry, so they return the bottle of tequila to the cupboard and take a can of meat they find on the back of a shelf. Used to Lori’s home cooked meals, he frowns to what Daryl affectionately calls “white trash caviar”. The casual way Daryl says it lets Rick at ease to chuckle at the words. 

Daryl opens the can and scoops out the meat into a frying pan, where he crushes it with a fork and stirs it over the stove with olive oil and chopped up vegetables. Rick occasionally makes himself useful, doing small things Daryl asks him to, like mince a clove of garlic, slice a tomato, or just take clean plates from the cupboards, but mostly, Daryl has the reins—and during all the time they cook, neither of them bothers to get dressed. At first, Rick is a little embarrassed to be parading around the house fully naked. No one has ever seen his limp dick for such a stretch of time, at least not since puberty. Sure, he did spend two months in a coma at the hospital relying on other people for his personal hygiene, but he wasn’t awake to see it, so it doesn’t count. But Daryl doesn’t pay any mind to their nudity, and Rick finds himself relaxing, too. The only time Daryl bothers to put something on is when he moves to the stove, protecting himself from the oil sizzling in the pan. 

With his back towards Rick, naked except for an apron, Daryl’s quiet sensuality leaves Rick stupefied. The scars he touched that afternoon are now visible, but they aren’t what draw his attention; it’s hard to avert his eyes from the lean body, the wide shoulders, the strong legs, the pale ass cheeks. In answer to his earlier wondering—how many tattoos he’d find if he mapped Daryl’s skin—right now, he sees two more drawings on his back that he didn’t have a chance to see before. They’re winged creatures, and Rick can’t tell if they’re angels or demons—he’ll need to inspect closer soon. 

Daryl’s culinary endeavor gets ready fast and he serves half of it on one of the clean plates Rick took from the cupboard. They sit on opposite sides of the counter, and Daryl eats his portion right out of the frying pan, ignoring the empty dish next to him, shoving a spoonful in his mouth before it’s cold enough to eat. He sucks air into his mouth, trying to blow his food that way. Rick laughs, watching him before taking his first bite, amused by the other man’s quirks. The food tastes really good, despite the cheap ingredients. Rick likes the way Daryl cooks: it’s instinctive, inventive. He does what he can with whatever he’s got at hand, instead of adapting his skills to a recipe. Rick suspects Daryl wouldn’t know how to make a pot of coffee if he had to follow one, which makes him appreciate even more the simple meals Daryl whips up. 

After they eat, Rick steals the apron from Daryl and starts doing the dishes. He’s up to the elbows in soap when he feels the other man’s naked body behind him, chest and stomach touching his back, a mouth kissing the nape of his neck. The frying pan he’s washing falls into the sink with a metallic noise. He rinses the soap off his arms and turns to Daryl, cradling the man’s face in his hands, lips closing on his mouth. 

The walk to the bedroom is short and blind; they don’t stop kissing for even a moment between the kitchen and their destination. As soon as they’re past the door, Rick guides them to the bed and throws Daryl on it. The taste he got from the other man earlier that afternoon only served to spike his appetite and he lets his mouth wander across the plains of Daryl’s torso, pausing on the nipples, sucking on the rosy tips and tracing them with his tongue when they harden. Slowly, he trails down the skin of Daryl’s stomach all the way to his hard cock, resting just an inch below his navel. This time, Rick holds him steady with one hand and gets a nice rhythm going before he chokes for the first time. Daryl’s attentive gaze on him and his troubled breathing are additional rewards to the delicious taste on Rick’s tongue. When his jaw starts to get sore, he moves farther down, past Daryl’s balls, mouthing his asshole, forcing a wet tongue inside just enough to slick his hole. Rick pulls back and takes the tip of Daryl’s cock in his mouth again, at the same time as his index finger invades the young man’s body. 

He lets Daryl get used to the thickness before adding a second finger and probing inside his body, looking for that rigid spot that leaves Daryl shaking every time Rick fingers it hard. It takes a few seconds, both of them tense with expectation, but then Rick finds it, and spends long and delicious minutes massaging Daryl’s prostate, sucking gently on his glans. Once he learns how to coordinate the movements of his fingers buried deep inside Daryl and his mouth on Daryl’s cock, his left hand slides down to his own erection. Rick feels stupidly proud—for someone who didn’t think he was good with multitasking, he’s turning out to be a quick learner. 

Things are different this time—gentle and unhurried, instead of impulsive and needy—but no less pleasurable because of it. Rick feels the tension rising in Daryl’s body, knows he’s going to come soon, and realizing it’s going to happen in his mouth fills him with anticipation. When it happens, the warm wave of come that invades his mouth doesn’t catch him by surprise. He’s ready for it, but doesn’t swallow it at once, letting the first jet sit on his tongue instead, savoring it, as Daryl’s cock continues to gush into his mouth. What does surprise him is the taste—a lot stronger than precome and it impregnates his taste buds in a way the clear fluid doesn’t—but the thrill he feels swallowing that mouthful sets a brand new craving inside of him. 

Feeling Daryl’s cock twitch with the aftershocks, still hanging loosely from his lips, Rick abandons the quiet rhythm he’s been stroking himself with and jerks off in earnest. Daryl reaches out and touches his face, running his fingers through Rick’s beard and hair. Rick lets the half-hard cock slip from his lips and lifts his eyes to Daryl. They stare at each other, eyes locked as Daryl pushes one thumb into his mouth. Rick sucks on it ravenously, stroking himself fast, drawing out his own orgasm. When he comes, he spills part on the bed and part on Daryl’s groin, coating his softening cock, his pubes, and his balls. 

Rick looks at the white drops adorning Daryl’s skin, painting a contrast with the darkness of his bodily hair, and has a moment of hesitation, but the aftertaste of come on his tongue compels him into action and he licks all the evidence of his orgasm from the other man’s body and the sheets. His come is less fluid than Daryl’s, maybe because it’s already cooling. It tastes sharper, too, and he feels positively devious to be eating his own load. Daryl, however, seems fascinated by what he’s just seen and pulls him up into a tongue-filled kiss, hugging him tight. 

Rick was never the cuddling type, mostly because Lori always rushed to the bathroom as soon as they were done having sex, but Daryl doesn’t move from the bed. Instead, they turn on their sides, lying close to each other on the double bed. Rick is the bigger spoon, and he buries his nose in Daryl’s hair, inhaling the vague smell of the shampoo they’re both using and something subtle behind that odor, something he identifies as Daryl. One of his hands is folded under the pillow, while the other rests on Daryl’s torso, moving up and down from the shoulder to the hip, the touch of his fingertips light as a ghost’s. After a few minutes, Daryl’s breathing sounds louder in the room, a light snore—he’s dozed off. Rick, however, is wide awake, probably because he slept in that morning. 

He sits on the bed, careful not to move too much on the mattress and wake Daryl up. Standing in the room, he looks for the jeans he wore on the trip and a shirt, getting dressed fast. After putting on his boots and sticking the keys into his pocket, he takes one last look at the sleeping man on the bed. Daryl’s lips are ajar and slightly shiny with saliva. Rick tries but fails to resist placing a careful kiss on one of his shoulder blades, in the minuscule space between the angel and the demon on his back. Rick considers writing a short note letting him know where he’s off to, but he doesn’t plan on staying out too long and is probably going to be back before Daryl wakes up. 

The drive to Dale’s store is uneventful. All the cabins next to Rick’s are obviously closed and unoccupied. The streets are moist with dew, the lampposts’ dying light reflecting on shallow puddles—this is a town that sleeps early. It’s a little past eight PM when he parks in front of Dale’s property, but the two of them know each other well enough for Rick to know it’s okay to ring the doorbell. The smile on the old man’s face when he sees Rick confirms that, and he invites Rick inside with a friendly pat on his shoulder. 

“Want some chicken casserole? We already ate, but Irma always cooks enough food to feed a small army, so there’s still plenty left,” Dale offers, guiding them into the living room. 

“No, thanks,” Rick says, sitting on one of the armchairs. “Daryl and I already ate too.” 

He can’t not notice Dale’s eyebrows lifting slightly at the young man’s name. Rick tries his best not to worry—it wouldn’t make sense walking on eggshells to avoid mentioning Daryl’s presence in the cabin when Dale has already seen it with his own two eyes. Rick thinks it’s better to cut to the chase, in case Daryl is, indeed, the reason Dale called him there. The old man takes his own armchair and point the remote to the TV. The screen goes black, cutting off the speech of a judge in some talent show. 

“It’s a long time since I last saw Daryl Dixon,” Dale says. 

Rick’s heart misses a beat. Dixon—Daryl’s last name is Dixon. 

“Really? How long?” Rick chooses to ask, instead of blurting out an automatic _oh, so you know each other?_

His sentences need careful phrasing. It won’t do him any good to have Dale thinking he’s keeping a stranger in his house. Especially because Daryl is not a stranger; Rick knows Daryl likes the fruity taste of children’s toothpaste, that he’s a great cook but probably doesn’t realize that, that he goes out of his way to be helpful in any way he can, and how his body gets pliant when Rick is pleasuring him. But he also knows he can’t list those facts as proof of how well he knows the young man, at least not to Dale. 

“Oh, at least seven years,” Dale says and looks up for a moment, searching through his memory. “Some time after his father died. He must’ve told you all about it, the hunting accident with the stag in the woods, and all,” Dale waves one hand as he talks, and Rick nods attentively, pretending to be up to speed about everything.

It’s risky, but Rick feels confident enough in his deceit to say, “I didn’t think he’d ever come near these woods again, after getting lost there for days and that whole thing with his father. Children shouldn’t go through all that.” 

Dale nods in agreement and Rick can’t help but sigh in relief that his bluff pulled through. 

“Exactly. Can you believe I only found out about him getting lost days after it happened? At the time, Daryl didn’t live in town anymore. He and his father had moved to that trailer park near the old factory, but sometimes, Daryl would still swing by the store after school and I let him sit behind the register till we closed. Then one time, he didn’t show up for almost two weeks. It made me worried sick, but there was nowhere for me to call.” 

Rick tries not to let his surprise show on his face, but it gets harder with every word Dale says. 

“I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, but I used to wonder if there was a way I could keep that child. Irma and I never had kids, but Daryl was like a son to us, and I was genuinely afraid to send him back home to his father. Will Dixon was never a saint, but things went downhill after that horrible fire that killed Darla Dixon and destroyed their house. When his father died, Daryl was barely sixteen. Irma and I talked about taking him in, but before we could do anything about it, that brother of his… what’s his name?” 

“Merle,” Rick hurries to say, relieved to know the answer to at least that question. 

“That’s right, Merle. As I was saying, this Merle fellow showed up and just spirited the boy away, to do God knows what in God knows where. I barely knew anything about him. I knew he was a local, but he ran away in his late teens, and before that, he was hardly ever home. In juvenile institutions, from what I gathered. So you get my concern when Daryl disappeared with him and didn’t come back.” 

Rick nods again. “Merle can be… a nasty piece of work.” 

“He sure can… I didn’t think I’d ever see Daryl again, but I’m happy I have, even after such a long time. He told me you two met on the road?” 

Rick’s body goes cold. He might not be able to manipulate his speech to omit the fact he has no idea what Daryl said. Still, instinct tells him Daryl probably didn’t mention he was fallen on the side of the road after being robbed and assaulted at the time they met. 

“That’s right. Rescued from quite a predicament.” 

Dale frowns for a moment and says, “So he helped you when your car broke down? Daryl always had a talent for engines, unlike anyone I’ve seen before. He used to help people all over the neighborhood when he still lived here.” 

Rick looks at Dale with veiled suspicion, wondering if the old man is purposefully turning a blind eye to whatever he assumes Rick and Daryl are doing together in the cabin. 

“Daryl probably already took apart my engine and put it back together, the way he’s always messing with it,” Rick says, and that part is true, at least. 

“That’s Daryl, all right.” Dale chortles shortly. “Listen, would tell him to come here in the morning? I want him to have a look at my RV. It’s making this weird rattling sound, and I can’t figure out why.” 

Rick’s wariness spikes for a second. Was Dale calling Daryl over to cross-examine their answers? No, Dale wouldn’t be that conniving. Besides, Rick hasn’t said much to be caught in a lie. 

“I’ll tell him.” 

“Have you spoken to Lori?” Dale says. “I hope she comes next time. I missed her this time around.” 

Rick clears his throat—no use in sugarcoating it, even more so if Dale has figured out the nature of his relationship with Daryl. If anything, he ought to make it clear no one is being deceived. 

“Lori and I… we’re separated, Dale. She already got a new husband—” 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry,” Dale interrupts him, raising his palms apologetically. “Though I must admit I had my suspicions when you showed up here alone and another man picked up the phone when I called her back today.” 

“To answer your question, yes, I talked to her. My cellphone was dead and I couldn’t find a charger, but I took care of it now. Thanks for checking in on me.” 

“Oh, good. She called me this morning quite worried, and asked me to drop by the cabin. I called her back and told her you were fine. Nothing more.” 

The emphasis his old friend puts on the last two words kills any doubt Rick might have whether or not Dale knows about him and Daryl, leaving him slightly uncomfortable. But maybe he shouldn’t be—even if Dale has figured it out, he doesn’t seem judgmental about it or eager to tell the news. 

“Thanks, Dale,” Rick says, hoping his eyes will tell the man exactly what he’s thankful for. 

“Come with me to the kitchen, let’s get to the reason why I called you here,” Dale says, rising from the armchair. “The crate I gave you the other day was meant for someone else. There was a mix-up with the orders, and you got a lot less than what you paid for, but I already fixed you a new one.” 

Dale’s kitchen is far more homely than Rick’s, with its plaid curtains and animal-shaped fridge magnets, and Rick finds himself wishing the cabin looked more lived-in. Will that happen naturally, now that Daryl is staying with him? He does his best to ignore the voice in the back of his mind that tells him Daryl might not even stay that long, but it still haunts him. 

The crate Dale has prepared for him is on top of the kitchen table and is, in fact, a lot fuller than the one before, and this time, Rick can see two bottles of milk in it. 

“How much do I owe you for the first batch?” 

Dale waves a dismissive hand. “Don’t you worry about that. Think of it as welcome back gift. Anyway, let me give you some of that chicken casserole to go. I don’t know how you boys are getting by on food.” 

Dale has been a family friend long enough for Rick to know arguing will get him nowhere. 

“Thanks, I’ll take it. Irma’s food is too good to pass up. But Daryl knows his way around the kitchen, so we’ve been doing okay,” he admits tentatively while Dale busies himself serving food onto a plate. 

Dale wraps it with plastic film and places it carefully into the crate, handing over the box and placing a heavy palm on Rick’s shoulder. 

“I used to care a lot about Daryl. Despite the awful circumstances he grew up in, I could see he was a good kid. After he was gone, I blamed myself, thinking I could have done more. Oftentimes, I wondered what had happened to him. To see him now… Let’s just say I’m happy he’s in good hands. You both are.” 

Rick freezes in the middle of Dale’s kitchen, the crate feeling progressively heavier in his arms. Dale never explicitly admits he knows what is going on, but his words aren’t so vague Rick doesn’t understand what he’s actually saying. Of all people he expected to learn about his involvement with Daryl, it never occurred to him Dale Horvath would be the first, or that he would be talking to the man about it. 

“Thanks, Dale. Really,” he says, because he is thankful, despite the awkwardness of it. 

Outside, he puts the crate on the floor of the car, next to the passenger’s seat, where it doesn’t have much room to bounce, and receives another friendly pat on his shoulder when he says good-bye to Dale. This one doesn’t feel as uncomfortable and he manages to smile. 

The drive home is as quiet as the one into town. He parks the car in front of the cabin and pulls the handbrake. Before turning off the engine, he looks at the watch on the dashboard. A quarter after nine, so Lori must still be up—probably in bed, watching TV like she does every night after dinner. The difference now is that she must be doing it with Shane by her side. The mental image of the two of them cuddling on the bed that used to be his dissuades him from dialing her number. Instead of interrupting their private moment, he’ll talk to her in the morning. Shane will be at work and Carl will be in school, and he’d rather talk to her when she’s alone. 

He takes the crate from the passenger’s side and it’s not easy unlocking the front door while trying to balance it on his arms. He’s just finished turning the key in the lock when Daryl pulls the door open, giving him a start that almost makes him drop what he’s carrying. 

“Hey, Daryl,” he says, placing the crate on top of the counter and kicking the door closed. “Didn’t think you’d wake up before I came back. I was at Dale’s.” 

Daryl stands a few feet away from the counter, biting on a nail. He’s barefoot and shirtless, dressed in the same sweatpants Rick wore that day. Rick smiles at that, taken by a sudden need to see how Daryl would look like dressed in every one of his clothes. 

“‘S all right,” Daryl says, fingertip still in his mouth, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. “Just wish you’d left a note, is all.” 

Rick puts the bottles of milk in the fridge and considers putting the groceries away, but something in Daryl fidgeting next to him makes him change his mind. While Rick was in King County, newlywed and fresh into the academy, Daryl lost his mother to a fire, lost himself in the woods, lost his brother to a wayward life, lost his ill-tempered father to a hunting accident. Losing his bike must not even come close to those previous hardships, but Rick can’t help thinking Daryl’s life up to that point had been nothing but a series of losses. 

It’s not like he could have shut Dale up and stopped him from disclosing all that information about Daryl, but Rick still feels a pang of guilt for knowing what he just found out. It should have been Daryl’s choice to share any of that; to make matters worse, a thought hasn’t stopped tempting him ever since he left Dale’s house—now that he knows Daryl and Merle’s last name, he can track them in the system once he goes back to King County, see what the police records have to say about that family. 

“You’re right,” he says at last. “I should’ve left a note. I won’t forget next time.” 

Daryl closes the short distance between them and plants a kiss on him that he isn’t ready for. Despite the surprise, Rick kisses him back, sucking one of the young man’s lips into his mouth. Still, he takes a moment and parts the kiss long enough to say, “Daryl?” 

“I want us to fuck now. Can we fuck now?” Daryl pants against his lips with an urgency Rick doesn’t fully understand. 

Despite his own confusion, Rick can’t imagine a scenario in which Daryl asks them to fuck—especially with such a needy tone—and he refuses. Besides, if Daryl is upset about something, he doesn’t see how denying him would them any good. 

So he wraps his arms around Daryl and says, lips grazing the other man’s ear, “Don’t worry, love. I’ll give you everything you need.” 

For the second time that day, they stagger down the hallway, lost in steamy kisses and hands that wander, squeezing and fondling everything they touch. Once they reach the bedroom, they walk blindly until the back of Rick’s thighs hit the edge of the bed. He sits on the mattress, parting their mouths, but locking his own immediately on one of Daryl’s nipples. While his mouth busies itself with the right one, his fingers pinch and tease the left, leaving a rigid nub in its place. Above him, Daryl tosses his head back and exhales noisily through his nose. 

Daryl’s erection is a big bulge in his sweatpants, and seeing that, Rick knows he’ll never be able to put on those pants again without imagining Daryl’s hard cock distending the fabric. It takes just one agile movement of Rick’s hands for the pants to be around the young man’s ankles. Daryl steps out of them, standing fully naked next to the bed. Rick feels he’s getting more used to seeing him naked than with any clothes on, and hopes that won’t change. 

Daryl’s cock is hard and leaking precome just a few inches away from Rick’s chin, and he eliminates the small distance, taking the length into his mouth and swallowing as much of it as he can, tasting the delicious salt of the skin. Rick has just bobbed his head a few times before Daryl pushes him back on the bed, cock slipping free of Rick’s mouth. 

Rick props himself up on his elbows, looking at the other man, brow furrowed. 

“Let me do you,” Daryl says, in a hushed tone. “I wanna do you. Want you so bad, Rick.” 

Truth is Rick doesn’t even get what Daryl is trying to say—does he want to fuck Rick?—but whatever it is, Rick can’t think of a meaning he wouldn’t enthusiastically agree with. Still, when Daryl gets on all fours over his body, that pretty ass turned towards his face, and swallows his cock all the way to the root, the loud moan that escapes Rick’s mouth is equal parts surprise and lust and he shuts his eyes for a moment. 

Daryl’s expert suction on his dick makes his hips stutter, seeking more of that warmth every time the other man pulls his head back. Honestly, if Daryl keeps sucking him like that, that night might finally be the time when Rick comes so fast it’s embarrassing. He opens his eyes again and the sight that greets him doesn’t make matters easier. With Daryl on all fours on top of his body, knees resting on each side of Rick’s torso, his ass cheeks part enough to expose his inviting hole. Daryl’s cock looks heavy between his thighs, hard and leaking so much precome, there’s a sticky line of it hanging from the tip of his dick and it’s going to drop on Rick’s chest soon. 

Despite his previous self-doubt about putting his mouth to work and being at Daryl’s mercy at the same time, Rick takes his chances and lifts himself high enough to close his lips around Daryl’s asshole, his tongue wasting no time to find its target. He feels more than hears Daryl’s moan around his cock, saliva flowing freely around it. Rick barely pays attention to what his own mouth is doing, just moving his own tongue greedily, forcing it inside that tight ring of muscle. Daryl’s hole is drenched in saliva, and Rick takes advantage of that to thrust two crossed fingers into the opening, as slowly as he can. Daryl’s loud whimper is choked by the cock in his throat and he pushes his hips back, taking those two fingers a lot faster than Rick intended him to. 

Rick doesn’t take long to find that spot inside Daryl, attacking the bundle of nerves with laser focus, determined to make Daryl come as fast as possible, especially when he himself is so close. Rick’s mouth is now empty and he doesn’t like that feeling. He needs to taste Daryl, doesn’t matter what part of his body, and when the young man tilts his ass farther up, Rick has enough room to get more than half of Daryl’s erection in his mouth. His own hips are trembling, fucking slightly into Daryl’s eager lips. 

Maybe it’s the angle he’s in, but more and more of Daryl’s erection slides into his mouth every time he moves his head, neck already hurting with the strain. The thick cock slides down his throat in increments, and it’s both scary and thrilling to finally feel the tip of his nose touching Daryl’s balls. His throat attempts to rebel against the invasion, and he gags a little, resting his head back on mattress, keeping just the head of Daryl’s cock between his lips. Daryl pushes his hips down, seeking more of Rick’s mouth, and goose bumps spread all over his skin when he realizes Daryl is not the only one getting his mouth fucked. 

His fingers work fast in Daryl’s asshole, and he can feel the young man coming undone on top of him, moaning and drooling all over with cock stuffed in his mouth and cutting off most of his sounds. For a moment, it seems like Daryl will be the first one to come, but Rick suddenly can’t take the onslaught of sensations anymore—his own cock in Daryl’s hot mouth, a large dick dripping precome on his tongue and cutting his breathing in rhythmic intervals, Daryl’s tight hole squeezing around his fingers—and Rick tips over, flooding Daryl’s throat with come. 

The frenzy of his own orgasm makes him redouble his efforts and the way Daryl is shaking shows him he isn’t far behind. Right before Daryl comes, though, Rick gags again and he pulls Daryl’s cock free right when it’s pulsating with orgasm. A warm jet hits him on the face, cutting a horizontal line on his left cheek, but that’s just the first. The second one hits him on the nose and the third on the mouth, and he’s already licking his lips before the fourth and last jet catches him on the tongue. He opens his eyes, the streaks of come warm on his face, and there’s a single pearly drop hanging from Daryl’s cock. He licks it without hesitating, and Daryl shivers on top of him, hypersensitive. Rick pulls his fingers free slowly, giving one last rub on the gaping rim on the way out. 

Daryl changes their positions, moving sluggishly on top of him, and lies down next to him on the bed. He sticks a pink tongue out and he’s barely finished licking the come off his face when Rick grabs him by the hair and clashes their mouths together. Their kiss tastes of both their come, of pure sex. 

They eventually stop kissing, and he hugs Daryl tight by his side, unwilling to let the young man leave the bed. Daryl doesn’t seem to want to go anywhere either, resting his head on Rick’s chest. They stay like that for a while, Rick playing with the strands of Daryl’s hair, running fingers through his scalp. 

“Dale asked you to drop by the store tomorrow morning, take a look at his RV.” 

“Damn, Rick. Here I am, naked on top of ya, and you’re thinking of Dale.” 

Rick gives him a playful jab on the ribs, snorting, and Daryl chuckles along. Rick places a kiss on his forehead, wondering when being around Daryl started feeling so easy and familiar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, you guys. I am... I don't know what I am. Delighted? Over the moon? Dead? All of the above? The amazing response I've been getting from all of you is amazing and I couldn't be happier. Not only you leave the most thoughtful comments, but I got the best gift I could ever hope for. The brilliant DarylDixonGrimes wrote a companion piece for this story, called "Whispers in the Dark." If you haven't read it yet, I urge you to do it, because it's just gold!
> 
> Thank you all for sticking with this story. It's going to be a little longer than I expected, with six chapters instead of five, so we still have one more to go. :)


	6. Loving is better

This time, when Rick wakes up, Daryl is in bed with him. The thin curtains filter the sun, giving the room a bluish tone. The light is still weak, letting him know these are the first hours in the morning. Who needs an alarm clock when you got no blinds? They fell asleep in each other’s arms, but rolled to opposite sides of the bed at some point in the night. Daryl is now lying on his side, hugging a pillow. His light snore tells Rick he’s still out; it’s the same sound that lulled Rick to sleep last night. He’d wanted to stay up longer, enjoying the weight and warmth of the man’s body on his shoulder, but his eyelids were too heavy. 

But now is his chance, and he stays in bed, taking in everything about Daryl: listening to his breathing, noticing the way his eyeballs move from side to side behind his eyelids, inching close enough to inhale the smell of his neck and hair. But the same way the sun’s rays woke him up, they eventually wake Daryl too. He stirs on the mattress, stretching his arms before slowly opening his swollen eyes. 

“Hey,” he says, barely parting his lips, and thrusts a naked thigh between Rick’s legs. 

Rick brings him closer, resting a hand on the small of his back, and kisses him—affection rather than lust. Daryl’s skin is soft under his touch. They spend a moment like this, basking in the laziness of having just woken up, until the sun rises high enough in the sky to brighten up the room. 

“What time is Dale expecting me?” 

“He didn’t say. But I reckon we got time for a bath and breakfast.” 

“Good,” Daryl says, but instead of getting up, he hugs Rick closer and buries his face on the crook of his neck. 

Rick is ready to send everything to hell, let Dale find someone else to fix his RV, but Daryl is too responsible for that. Placing a kiss on Rick’s neck, he finally pulls back and gets up. Rick watches him leave the room fully naked and disappear down the hallway. He lounges in bed a while longer, hearing the activity throughout the cabin—faucets being turned on and off, flushing, the kettle’s whistle, cupboards’ and the fridge’s doors slamming shut. 

Rick gets up and makes the bed perfunctorily before grabbing a change of clothes and heading to the bathroom. He doesn’t bother closing the door as he takes a piss and washes his hands and face in the sink. When he makes it to the kitchen, Daryl is eating the chicken casserole he’d forgotten over the counter last night. The smell of fresh coffee brings a smile to Rick’s face. 

“You sure you wanna eat that? It was out of the fridge the whole night, and I’m pretty sure there’s mayo in there,” Rick says, even if Daryl has already eaten more than half of it. 

Daryl shrugs and shoves another spoonful in his mouth. Rick smiles and shakes his head, fetching the thermos and pouring himself a mug. Daryl is wearing his less battered button-up, the vest, and even combed his hair. His backpack is on the floor next to him. 

“You can take my car,” Rick says, nodding at the key inside a bowl on the counter. There is no reason Daryl should walk all the way to the town and back. Besides, if he takes the car, he’ll be back to Rick sooner. 

Daryl gets the last bite in his mouth and is still chewing when he takes the dish to the sink. He starts washing it, but Rick kisses him on the neck and sneaks in front of him, taking the sponge from his hand. Daryl’s lips curve slightly and he goes to the bathroom. When he returns to the kitchen, his breath smells of artificial grape and he gives Rick a tongue-filled kiss, not caring about the taste of coffee. Rick hands him Dale’s dish and crates, so Daryl can return them. 

Standing by the cabin’s front door, he watches Daryl take the driver’s seat of his sedan and adjust the rearview mirrors before turning on the engine. He waves good-bye and backs up the car until he’s out of the yard, disappearing down the road. Rick walks back inside, the door slamming shut behind him. 

For the next two hours, Rick tries to stay busy. The first forty-five minutes, he spends doing physical therapy, forcing himself to focus on his lunges instead of how unfamiliar it feels to be exercising without Daryl. Afterwards, he’s finally hungry enough for breakfast and goes to the kitchen, fixing himself scrambled eggs and fried sausages. He chews slowly, but one can only take so much time eating and he cleans the plate in fifteen minutes. When he’s done, he takes his time doing the dishes, drying them and putting them away. When he’s done with _that_ , he goes to his room and starts checking his own clothes, setting aside the ones he thinks will fit Daryl better, and putting them in a separate drawer. 

He glances at his turned off cellphone, resting on the bedside table, and sighs. He should stop stalling—postponing the call won’t help matters. If he takes too long, Daryl might be back before he gets around to do it, and he’d rather talk to Lori when he’s alone. He returns to the kitchen to have a glass of water and brace himself for what will surely be a difficult conversation—even if she accepts his apology, she’ll probably talk his ear off. 

Finally, he goes back to the bedroom and sits on the bed, holding the on-off button for a couple of seconds, waiting for the phone to be functional. Like before, it buzzes with unread text messages and missed phone calls, but to his amazement, it’s the same amount as yesterday. Maybe his short text calmed Lori enough for her not to keep calling. He pulls her contact and presses the call button. 

It rings several times and Rick is almost hoping the call will get dropped—he _did_ call, so no one can accuse him of not trying, right?—but around the seventh ring, Lori picks up. 

“Rick.” 

Rick wasn’t expecting her to be cheerful, but her tone is strange. She’s never sounded so dry, so cold, and considering the final months of their marriage, that’s saying something. 

“Hey, Lori. I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner. I didn’t mean to upset you or Carl. The trip was fine and I’m okay. My battery died and I couldn’t find the charger,” he repeats the words he’d been rehearsing in his head for the past ten minutes, hoping he sounds apologetic enough to make up for how lame his excuse is. 

There’s only silence on the other side of the line. Rick pulls the phone away from his face, thinking he might’ve gotten disconnected after all, but the numbers on the screen keep tracking the call’s duration. 

“Lor?” 

The nickname draws her from her silence, and this time, the anger he was expecting is present in her voice. “What about Daryl? Is _he_ okay?” 

The bottom of Rick’s stomach drops. His immediate thought is that Dale spoke a lot more than he admitted, but outright lying goes against everything he knows about the old man. “Lor, how did—” 

“Don’t you Lor me. If you wanted to run away to the middle of the woods and live your Brokeback fantasy, you could’ve just told me, instead of letting me spend weeks planning this trip like a fool—” 

He grits his teeth and any will to appease her leaves him. 

“—be honest, Rick. When did you meet him? Was it after you woke up? Before you got shot? Did you have a boyfriend on the side while I bent over backwards to save our marriage?” 

“You lost the right to complain when you started screwing my friend of thirty years in our bed,” he yells. God, he really wishes he’d kept his cool. At least he’s not the only one to have lost his temper. 

“At least you heard it from me, while all I get is a call from the fucking Governor, all too pleased to _warn_ me about the twenty-year-old junkie driving my husband’s car around town.” 

The emotions floor Rick, and he can’t readily label them. Embarrassment over having his private matters up for public debate? Anger at Lori for the moralistic, accusing tone? Confusion about how Philip Blake could have guessed the nature of his relationship with Daryl? Indignation at him for meddling with things that aren’t absolutely his business? 

“Daryl isn’t—” 

“Don’t you try to deny it. The Governor said your boyfriend bought lubricant in his store. Christ, you both didn’t even try to keep up appearances.” 

Rick rubs a hand on his tired eyes. “I wasn’t gonna deny it. Daryl is not a junkie. You and I are no longer together. You’re with Shane. I did nothing wrong.” It’s a low blow, but he adds, “Unlike you, I didn’t cheat.” 

“You said you forgave us, you accepted us, but you’ll never let me off the hook, will you?” 

“I forgave you, Lori. I want you two to be happy together, but you don’t get to say those things about the people—about the man I choose to be with.” 

She takes a pause, making him wonder if the conversation is over and whether he should hang up. But then she says, “Do you intend to bring that… that man around Carl?” 

Lori has always been a lioness around Carl, and that’s one of the qualities he most admires in her, but the way she says “man” sets his teeth on edge. 

“I don’t know. Yes? Maybe?” 

“If you think I’m gonna let a drug addict—” 

“Daryl is not a drug addict. He’s a good man, Lori. Life sure dealt him a bad hand, but he’s done his best to get over the shitty things that have happened to him. He’s thoughtful and caring. More than anyone I know.” 

“The Governor said—” 

“You know better than to believe anything Philip Blake tells you,” Rick says, exasperated. 

Lori lets out a tired sigh that doesn’t sound so combative. Maybe Rick is fooling himself, but he wonders if he’s managed to get through to her. 

“You don’t need to take my word for it,” he says, amazed at how steady his voice sounds. “Call Dale. Talk to him. He knows Daryl ever since he was a kid. Dale has no reason to lie to you.” 

Rick readies himself for another accusation, something along the lines of “you told Dale before you told me,” but she says nothing of the sort. 

“All right. I might do that.” There’s another pregnant pause before she says, “I’m gonna hang up now. Don’t forget your therapy.” 

The silence that follows is too abrupt and he knows she just disconnected their call. He heads to the living room, meaning to do something, but once he gets there, he completely forgets what it was and just falls on the couch, the cellphone in his pocket. He stays like that, unmoving and facing the fireplace, until he hears the sound of an engine as a car parks out front. 

Daryl walks in, tossing his backpack on the floor. He’s got and a small grocery bag with him and he lays it on the counter. 

“Hey, man. I stopped by the store to get us some things. You liked yesterday’s dinner so much, thought I introduce you to more white trash cuisine,” he says, taking a jar of pig’s feet from the bag. 

Rick hasn’t had many opportunities to see Daryl so relaxed and enthusiastic about anything other than cars, but the conversation with Lori is still replaying in his ears, and it’s hard to share his excitement. The weight on his shoulders feels heavier. How could anyone think of Daryl as a bad influence on him? The man lights up over pig’s feet, for Christ’s sakes. 

Daryl sits next to him on the couch and takes something out of his pocket, placing it on the cushion between them and kissing Rick’s cheek. 

“Got us somethin’ else too,” he whispers. 

It’s a tube of Astroglide. Rick doesn’t mean to, but he scoffs. If Daryl just got home, then Blake didn’t waste as second to call Lori as soon as Daryl left the store. What is that man’s problem? Goddamn. 

The enthusiasm dies on Daryl’s face and he pulls back, his stance rigid. 

“We’re over, ain’t we?” 

Rick frowns, his jaw dropping. What the— 

“I get it. Was kind of expecting it, to be honest. Just didn’t think it would happen now. Figured it would take a few more days ‘fore you realized you could do a lot better than a homeless redneck. Still, we both had our fun, right?” 

The shock leaves him speechless at the worst moment; he ought to be clearing things out, but the self-deprecating words catch him off guard. Does Daryl really believe anything he just said? 

“Don’t suppose I could still get a lift to the ferry? I can even pay for my ticket this time. Dale gave me some cash for fixing his RV.” 

Rick can’t stand to hear any more of that, and since he apparently lost most of his higher brain functions, he lets instinct guide him and kisses Daryl. It’s a hungry kiss at first, but he worries Daryl might come up with another ridiculous assumption—that Rick wants a goodbye fuck or something—so he pulls back. 

It’s too soon. Of course it is. Anyone with a lick of common sense would tell him that. A year from now—scratch that—a week, hell, even a day from now, he’ll probably regret his words. But right now, it feels right. Right now, there isn’t a single doubt clouding his brain. 

“Move in with me.” 

“What?” 

“Forget this temporary bullshit. Move in with me. If things don’t work out, you can always leave, but we oughta give it a try. Don’t you think?” He needs Daryl to say yes. Right now, he wants Daryl to say yes more than he wanted to get in the police academy, more than he wanted his first car, more than he wanted to leave the hospital after waking up from the coma. 

“Dale got a car shop in King County, a godson of his runs it, some dude named Glenn. Said he needs a new mechanic, that I got a job there if I want it.” 

“See? It’s perfect. My family lives in King County. I got at least three more weeks of medical leave, so we got time to look for a place, and you won’t even need to go job hunting—” 

The hesitation is plain on Daryl’s face. 

“—or maybe we can just forget I said anything.” 

“No, I just—” He kisses Rick again, needy and desperate, as if he thinks this is last chance to do it. When they part, the words come out of his throat with difficulty. “There are things you don’t know about me.” 

“There are things you don’t know about me too,” Rick says, even if Daryl has always given him the impression he could see right through his soul. 

“I mean there’s a lot of heavy shit you don’t know about.” He puts some distance between them, as if to give seriousness to his speech. “From back when… I used to live here. And some stuff that happened after I left with Merle.” 

It makes him tense to admit it, but Rick owes Daryl to be honest. “Dale mentioned some things, thinking I already knew. He’s very fond of you.” 

“What’d he say?” Daryl’s nervous habit returns, and he nibbles on the cuticle of his thumb. 

“That you used to stay in his store after school until it got dark. That he thought of taking you in—” 

Daryl flinches when his teeth nick the skin under the fingernail, and a thin thread of blood escapes the superficial wound. He closes his lips around the injury, sucking on it. Rick wishes Daryl wouldn’t hurt himself like this, but doesn’t know what he can do to help. 

“—that your mom died in a fire and you lost your house. That Merle ran away and only came back years later, when you father died in a hunting accident. That your father wasn’t worth a damn.” 

“Yeah, that’s about right, but...” He pulls his finger out of his mouth, and looks away for a moment. “Shit, shoulda taken a few shots of that tequila,” he says, but makes no move to go get it. 

It’s better this way. 

When Daryl finally starts talking, he keeps his eyes on the fireplace in front of them. Rick wants to comfort him somehow—embrace him, stroke his hair—but it must be difficult to talk about these things, and he fears touching him right now might make it even harder, somehow. He can take Daryl in his arms when he’s done talking. 

“My old man was always a mean drunk. I mean, when he was sober, he was no better or worse than the dads I saw around the neighborhood. Things is, he was almost always plastered. My mom was… well, she wasn’t like him, but she liked her wine too. Liked to smoke in bed. Virginia Slims.” 

He stops talking again, still facing ahead, lost in thoughts. Rick doesn’t need to know, not when talking about it is so hard for Daryl. Still, it’s Daryl’s decision to share it or not, and Rick doesn’t want to influence him in either direction. Even if it hurts, maybe Daryl needs to tell someone. God knows how many times Rick wanted to talk about all the shit in his head, but every time he tried opening up to Shane or Lori, things didn’t make sense once they were finally out of his mouth, and he ended up regretting saying anything. He doesn’t want that to happen to Daryl; if he chooses to say something, Rick wants him to feel supported. One of his hands hovers over Daryl’s knee, but he pulls it back, opening and closing his fist. 

Daryl notices his hesitation and just grabs Rick’s hand, but doesn’t look at him. 

“After she died and we lost the house, it got worse. My dad, he was a real piece of shit. Merle took off as soon as he could, but I… I stayed.” 

Daryl interlaces their fingers together. Rick doesn’t need more explanation than this—he knows now who was responsible for the scars on Daryl’s back. 

“Maybe I shouldn’t have, but I did. Thought I had nowhere to go. Thought that was where I belonged. Anyway, we went on this hunt one day. Dad was three sheets to the wind, for a change.” 

He lowers his eyes quickly to their joined hands before going on. 

“We tracked a stag for almost a mile. Dad was shit-faced but still managed to hit it square in the chest. Sounds stupid, but you gotta make sure the buck is dead ‘fore you try to gut it. Sometimes you get close and it ain’t dead yet, and even a wounded animal can still hurt you bad, but my dad was too drunk to care. I saw the stag was still alive a couple seconds 'fore it happened. I could've said something, warned him, but I didn’t.” 

Rick watches Daryl in silence, wondering if he ever told this to anyone. 

“The antlers cut his belly open. He screamed. Loud. I stood there for a whole minute, watching his blood soak the ground, 'fore I went for help. And even so, I could’ve run faster, I could’ve tried. But I took my time. Guess the man was dead before I even got to town. When Merle came back, he said people would find out what I had done. That they would take one look at me and just know. That I would give myself away, and we should just leave. Said there was nothing for us in this town. I couldn’t argue with that.” Daryl shrugs. “You wanna know what I was before all this? Us? I was just drifting around with Merle. Doing whatever he said we were gonna be doing that day. Until he disappeared and left me on my own. Just some redneck asshole who killed his own flesh and blood.” He looks straight at Rick for the first time in a while. “You still want me to move in with you?” 

Rick’s first responses vary from “I think the real question is whether you want to move in with a cop” to “Of course I do, what kind of question is that?”, but he doesn’t say anything immediately—he’s too stupefied for words. Daryl defended himself from a violent father the only way the abused teenager he was knew how, yet he thinks that is a reason for Rick not to want him anymore. 

What he ends up saying is what Daryl needed to hear a long time ago, seven years back, when all of that happened. 

“Doesn’t matter what you think, Daryl. You didn’t disembowel you father. You didn’t get him drunk. And no matter how fast you ran, he would have died one way or another.” 

Daryl’s eyes are welling up fast; he’s probably fighting back the tears, but he needs to blink eventually, and they roll off his cheeks. He squeezes his eyes shut, naked fragility on his face. Something inside Rick breaks seeing that, and he brings Daryl closer, kissing his forehead, his cheeks, his nose, showers him with kisses. The tears are salty on Rick’s tongue. Daryl gasps against him and kisses him on the mouth, trying to force a tongue past his lips. 

“Daryl—” Rick protests, a little shaken by the sudden change. 

But then Daryl straddles him. His face is still wet, but his eyes have dried up. “‘S all right. Loving is better than crying, right? I want this. You want it too?” 

Rick might still be a little confused, but his dick is having no trouble getting with the program, stiffening under Daryl as he crosses his ankles on the small of Rick’s back and joins their mouths. They kiss for a moment, but Rick tugs on Daryl’s hair, just hard enough to part their lips, Daryl’s neck stretching in front of him. He mouths the spot where he can feel the blood pumping, leaving a mark there. He wants Daryl to see it in random moments of his day—when he catches a glimpse of his reflection on a window or the car’s rearview mirror—and be reminded that a man who wants him more than anything, who can’t bear the thought of being away from him, put it there.

Rick pushes the vest off his shoulders and traces the hollow between Daryl’s clavicles with his tongue, memorizing the taste and feel of his skin, the shape of his bones. He unbuttons Daryl’s shirt slowly, kissing and licking each portion of skin revealed. When the piece of clothing is finally off, Rick focuses on his nipples, teasing them with just the tip of his tongue and fingers, a caress that’s barely there—it’s been just a few days, but he’s already familiar enough with Daryl’s body to know how much he likes this. Daryl surrenders easily on top of him, rubbing his ass on Rick’s erection under his hips. 

Rick unbuttons his pants, lowers the zipper. He’s seen Daryl’s cock so many times the last few days, he knows the rosy tone of his glans, knows how the foreskin slides in his hand, how incredibly sensitive the head of Daryl’s cock is… But each time he takes a look—each time the waistband of a pair of sweatpants goes down, each time the fly of a pair of jeans is undone—he loses his breath like he’s seeing it for the first time. Mouth still attached to Daryl’s right nipple, his hands roam all over his body, scratching the skin of his torso, grabbing an ass cheek, squeezing that mouthwatering hard-on from root to tip. He wants to touch Daryl everywhere, wants him to feel his passion and never come close to doubting again. 

One of his hands leave Daryl’s body as he pats the couch, trying to find the lube, and that moment alone is enough for Daryl to moan for the absence. The Astroglide secure in his hand, he gives Daryl’s ass an encouraging squeeze, planting one last kiss on his sternum. 

“Get this off,” he says, tugging on the waistband of his jeans. “I wanna finger you, get you open and ready for me.” His voice is hoarse in the back of his throat. 

Daryl nods and climbs down his body, standing in front of him. He bends over and struggles with the string of his boots for a while, that seem to have tangled themselves into a knot, his hard cock hanging from his pants. There’s something equally silly and arousing in the sight, and Rick doesn’t know if he wants to laugh or ravish him. Instead of doing either, he pulls his own T-shirt over his head and slides his sweatpants down his thighs, his erection springing free. He gives it a lazy stroke, eyes fixated on Daryl as he finally manages to kick his boots off and get rid of his pants. Rick breaks the lube’s seal and coats two fingers generously. 

Naked except for his socks, Daryl takes one step closer, but before he can straddle him again. Rick bends down and gives a quick suck to the head of his dick. He isn’t planning on actually going down on Daryl this time, but his cock is just too delicious for him not to get a taste. And if the drop of precome on his tongue wasn’t reward enough, Daryl’s moan sure is. 

Rick leans back against the couch and Daryl straddles him again. The lube makes his index finger slide in smoothly, Daryl’s body offering no resistance. It’s tight, but he can tell Daryl likes it. 

“Gimme another. I can take it,” Daryl gasps, hips stuttering softly. 

Rick doesn’t take his index finger out, just pushes the middle one alongside it, feeling it stretch Daryl wider as it goes in. His two fingers waste no time finding the place where Daryl’s prostate is buried, pressing on it hard. Daryl’s moan is so strewn out it gives him pause. 

“You okay?” 

“Fucking sensitive, I—fuck—” 

“Sorry, I—”

“No, keep doing it, just—keep doing it.” 

Rick doesn’t need to be told twice, and his fingers dig into that place as hard as before. With his free hand, he slides his fingertips on Daryl’s glans, spreading precome on the swollen head. Daryl is grabbing hard the couch behind Rick, going up and down on his lap in a movement so subtle he isn’t even sure Daryl knows he’s doing it. A thin layer of sweat covers his body, and Rick can smell the salt on his skin, can feel his impatience and his need to come, and loves every minute of it. 

“Daryl, darlin’...” he says and waits until Daryl’s eyes are open and focused on his face, until he knows he’s got his attention. “You wanna come on my hand or on my dick?” 

Daryl’s initial response is to toss his head back, fuck himself harder in short thrusts as a needy whimper escapes his lips, and Rick almost thinks that’s his answer. 

But then Daryl recovers enough to say, “Wanna come with you fucking me. I know you get winded fast, but…” He looks away briefly, as if he hadn’t meant to say what he just said. “Fuck me hard. Even if it’s just a moment. I wanna feel you.” 

There’s no way Rick will do it any differently, not after hearing something like that. Even if he drops dead right after, he’s going to pound into Daryl with all he’s got, give Daryl his cock, his come, his body, his mind—everything he is. 

He pulls his fingers free and Daryl grunts softly on top of him. He gently gets Daryl off of him, making him kneel on the couch, his chest on the back of it, so Rick can position himself behind him. Daryl isn’t exactly on all fours, but it comes close. He looks over his shoulder, eyes foggy, and reaches back, pulling one ass cheek in each hand, exposing himself, and Rick’s knees go weak seeing something so beautiful. 

He’s right behind Daryl a second later, the head of his cock forcing its way inside. As he slowly pushes in, his nails scratch the skin of Daryl’s thighs absent-mindedly. But then he bottoms out, and he grabs Daryl’s hips hard, pulling out and shoving himself in again. 

As he fucks Daryl, a thousand images cross his mind. Each time the heat of Daryl’s body engulfs him, he wonders what new pleasures they can find together. He wonders if he could make Daryl moan as prettily as he is doing now if Rick put him on his back and rode his cock. It’s something that’s been making him curious for a while now, and he knows that, sooner or later, he’s going to give having Daryl’s dick up his ass a try. But he’s curious about other things, too. Like what kind of reactions he could get out of Daryl if he was able to fuck him and suck his cock at the same time; he knows he can’t do it with his own dick, but his helpful mind supplies him with a number of things he could fuck Daryl with. Just thinking about it turns him on almost as much as the deep thrusts and Daryl’s choked out moans aren’t helping to pull him back from the edge. He doesn’t slow down, though, and one of the hands on Daryl’s hip moves to his cock, jerking him off slowly but effectively. Rick wants Daryl to feel as good as he’s feeling right now. 

Rick wants a thousand things more. He wants to fuck Daryl against a wall, hard, the weight and gravity making him sink into Daryl even deeper. He wants to take Daryl out to dinner somewhere nice, and get so hot and bothered watching Daryl suck sauce off fingers, they’ll fuck in the car at the parking lot, desperate and fast. He doesn’t want them to fight, but when they do—because all couples fight at some point, it’s inevitable—he can’t wait for them to have delicious make up sex. 

Their movements speed up. Rick can already feel the base of his lungs starting to burn, and his hand on Daryl’s hip grips tighter, making up for the tired pain spreading in his thighs. It will definitely leave five finger-shaped bruises. Daryl doesn’t complain—he moans, that he does a lot. But Rick thinks it’s pleasure with the way he undulates his hips, thrusting into Rick’s hand and pushing himself back on Rick’s cock. 

The couch is creaking noisily underneath them, and Rick wonders for a second if they’re going to fall over, but then it doesn’t matter anymore. They’re so close the ground could open up and swallow them both, and he’d continue fucking Daryl. Warm fluid coats his hand in spurts and probably the couch too, but the way Daryl tightens around him in his orgasm makes it hard to care about anything else; a second later, Rick is coming too, spilling deep inside him, grunting low. 

When it’s over, he places his sweaty forehead on the nape of Daryl’s neck, and waits for the ache in his thighs to dissolve a little before he pulls out and sits on the couch. Daryl’s legs are a little wobbly when he climbs off the couch. The stain on the cushion is smaller than Rick expected. His hand, however, is covered in white. He takes his abandoned shirt off the floor and wipes his hand clean with it. Daryl bends down to kiss him, stroking his jawline through the beard. He then leaves to the bathroom, and Rick hears the sound of a stream hitting the ceramic bowl, followed by the toilet’s flush. 

His eyes are closed, but sounds still filter through the sluggishness of the afterglow. Water pouring into the sink. Steps down the hallway, towards the bedroom. Something vibrates. Wood slamming on wood, probably drawers. Something vibrates again. 

Rick’s eyes snap open and he sees something shining in his sweatpants on the floor. His phone is ringing in his pocket. He manages to get it before the call is disconnected. Lori’s name is on the screen. He swallows hard, suddenly wide awake, and slides his thumb across the bottom of the screen, picking up the call. 

“Hey, Lori. Thanks for calling.” It would have been easy to just ignore him, assume an inflexible posture, so he truly is thankful. 

But before she can say anything, Daryl walks into the living room, already dressed. “You wanna start cooking or—” He cuts himself short when he sees Rick is on the phone. 

“Is that him?” Lori’s voice sounds quiet on the phone—not upset or offended, just cautious. 

“Yeah. We still haven’t had lunch.” 

“Good to know he takes care of you.” 

“He does that,” Rick says, unsure whether to be hopeful or not feed unrealistic expectations. He’s asking Lori to accept a great deal. 

“I talked to Dale.” 

Rick thinks of a thousand things to say, but doesn’t say anything in the end. 

Lori goes on. “I didn’t want to, but… You’re right. In your own way, you forgave us, accepted us. It was good for Carl and… I want to do the same for you. Dale said that… Daryl was like a son to him, that he regrets not making it clear. Said a lot of positive things about him. Apparently, your… Daryl is a mechanic genius or something.” 

“He likes to fish and is a great hunter, too.” 

Through his peripheral vision, he sees Daryl lifting his gaze briefly at him, then looking away. His attention momentarily diverted from the call, Rick isn’t ready for Lori’s weak laugh. 

“Just like your father.” 

He smiles. “Just like my father.” 

Lori’s pause is long, but he waits. 

“I know it’s your right to introduce him to Carl, after all Shane gets to have that, but… Not now, okay? Shane and I talked and… we figured he should’ve some time to adapt to all these changes. Carl is already dealing with too much right now.” 

Rick’s knee-jerk reaction is to get upset that she and Shane are now making decisions together about his son without consulting him, but he manages to quiet it down before he says anything that might fuel his conflict with Lori again. He should get used to it, now that Shane is Carl’s stepfather. Besides, they are probably right. Rick himself is still wrapping his head around all of this and he’s already made a lot more progress with them than he expected to. 

“It’s all right, Lori. We’ll take it slow.” 

“Thank you. And… I’m sorry for the things I said this morning. About Brokeback and—” 

“It’s all right.” He doesn’t want to hear any of it again. 

“—calling him a junkie. You called me less than a minute after I hung up on the Governor and… I wasn’t in the best mood.” 

“It’s all right.” 

“I, uh, I think I’ll let you go back to your lunch now. It was good talking to you, Rick.” 

“You too, Lor.” 

The line goes silent, and Rick stares at the screen for a moment before fetching his pants and putting them on, pushing the cellphone into his pocket. When he looks up, Daryl is busy taking things out of the fridge and setting them on the sink counter, but he can see the stiff expectancy in his posture. 

Rick approaches Daryl and takes a head of lettuce from his hands, placing it on the counter and giving him a quick peck on the lips. 

“How does that work? I say yes to pig’s feet and you say yes to moving in with me?” 

Daryl’s expression is hard to read. “You want that?” 

“Pig’s feet? ‘Course I do. You even need to ask?” he says, trying not to make a big deal out of the admittedly huge step they are taking. But he knows Daryl needs an actual answer. “Being with you—that’s all I wanted.” Rick touches his forehead to Daryl’s, their noses grazing.

Daryl smiles. It’s still restrained, the only kind of smile he seems to be able to give, but it’s also genuine and undeniable. “Well, I’m here now.” 

Yes. They both are.

**Author's Note:**

> A while ago, I watched "Dark Harbor" and couldn't stop thinking of a Dark Harbor Rickyl AU (minus the wife and the murder), so there you go. I want to thank all of you who stuck with me throughout this story. You kudos and subscriptions and bookmarks meant the world to me. But seriously: your comments! Oh my god, I can't get past how amazing your comments were. They helped shape this story into what it is. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.
> 
> Don't forget to read DarylDixonGrimes' amazing companion piece, "Whispers in the Dark." :)
> 
> Unfortunately, I'm not a native speaker and this work is unbetaed. I do my best editing it, but there's only so much I can do. So feel free to point out mistakes and help me improve; concrit is always welcome.
> 
> Thank you for reading.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Whispers in the Dark](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10640388) by [DarylDixonGrimes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarylDixonGrimes/pseuds/DarylDixonGrimes)




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